and maple syrup in my mouth. A diminished stack of pancakes sits between us on the kitchen table. I glance around me to estimate the time, a habit as deeply ingrained as blinking, or biting my nails. I haven’t worn a watch or carried a cell phone in years; they don’t last beyond the first shifting of the day. Sunlight strikes the wall behind Marjorie, not the hesitant yellow of morning, but full-bright.
Lunch, then; our kitchen window faces southwest.
Marjorie’s face seems calm across from me, but she clenches her cutlery in white-knuckled fists, and I recognize too well the controlled smile playing around her mouth, the state she reaches after hours of simmering.
Days we fight, the fight always comes first.
My stomach clenches with apprehension. Are we heading towards another of our apocalyptic shouting matches? I don’t, I cannot know what hurtful thing I’ve done to upset her so. But that won’t keep us from escalating, from whipping word welts on each other’s souls. I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to keep the emotional exhaustion at bay that threatens to overwhelm me.
It’s so hard. So hard.
I’m so sick of this.
