December 7, 2018 >

December 7, 2018 >


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Two Pieces

by Erin Jamieson


Of the course the milk carton is empty

we’d only just gone grocery shopping the day before and you kissed my cheek in the produce aisle, even though there was a distant look in your eyes. you held my hand as we passed the cashiers and the expecting mother and the teenager with the nose ring who was carrying a dozen yogurt containers in her arms. but every time we went down an aisle with no one, you dropped my hand, pushed the cart. I asked you if something was wrong and your response was to place a half dozen apples on top of the eggs. I didn’t have the heart to tell you, when we got home, and I threw the shells away while you were doing something else.

Table for two

peanut butter sandwiches, cut horizontally. tall glasses of lemonade. lumpy molten chocolate chip cookies, fresh from the oven.

maybe you expected satin tablecloths & candlelight; maybe you expected me to wear a tight red dress instead of paint-splattered jeans.

but, darling, I’m tired of play-acting & I think, finally, that so are you.

 

Erin Jamieson holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Miami University of Ohio. Her writing has been published or is forthcoming in After the Pause, Into the Void, Flash Frontier, Mount Analogue, Blue River, The Airgonaut, Evansville Review, Canary, Shelia-Na-Gig, and Foliate Oak Literary, among others. She currently teaches English Composition at University of Cincinnati-Blue Ash and freelances.