I used to tell him stories. Lying in bed, the touch of his skin made hotter by my beer buzz, I told him about the first time my mother hit me, the tampon I threw behind the dumpster the night I lost my virginity, and the gun I found under the sofa cushion hours before Doug committed suicide.
Years later, I can recall every story I told him, every secret he knows about me, but cannot, no matter how hard I try, remember him ever having said he loved me.
He must have at some point, or wouldn't I have quieted my tongue?
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Stories
I used to tell him stories. Lying in bed, the touch of his skin made hotter by my beer buzz, I told him about the first time my mother hit me, the tampon I threw behind the dumpster the night I lost my virginity, and the gun I found under the sofa cushion hours before Doug committed suicide.
Years later, I can recall every story I told him, every secret he knows about me, but cannot, no matter how hard I try, remember him ever having said he loved me.
He must have at some point, or wouldn't I have quieted my tongue?
Years later, I can recall every story I told him, every secret he knows about me, but cannot, no matter how hard I try, remember him ever having said he loved me.
He must have at some point, or wouldn't I have quieted my tongue?
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