Strawberry moon

By David Wylie

Monday morning. I’m standing on a crowded bus heading downtown. It’s hot. I’m sweating. The person in front of me is wearing a thin white shirt. It sticks to his body in the humidity. Arousal.

Tuesday at dawn. I wake up with a gasp. That same dream. I lift the cotton sheet and rise from the bed. My husband stirs but does not wake. I run my fingers through my damp red hair. I sneak downstairs to masturbate. Exhausted. I fall into a dreamless sleep.

Wednesday early afternoon. I get up from my desk at work and walk into the empty hallway. I call my husband. We fight over money. I hang up the phone. Fuck. Five minutes later I feel guilty. I send a text: I love you. I’m sorry.

Thursday before noon. I’ve spent three hours on the Internet. Clicking things I’ve already forgotten. Time wasted. My eyes are sore. I rush to work. No time to pack food; I’ll buy some even though I know our bills are higher than our pay.

Friday almost midnight. I am tired and restless. I cuddle close to you. I have nowhere else to go.

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