by Philip Schultz

Husband What could be more picturesque than us eating lobster on the water, the sun vanishing over the horizon, willing, once again, to allow us almost any satisfaction. William James said marriage was overlooking, overlooking, yes, but also overlapping; opinions, histories, the truth of someone not you sitting across the table seeing the you you can’t bear to, the face behind the long fable in the mirror. Freud said we’re cured when we see ourselves the way a stranger does in moment. Am I the I she tried to save, still lopsided with trying to be a little less or more, escaping who I was a moment ago? Here, now, us, sipping wine in this candlelit pause, in the charm of the ever casting sky, every gesture familiar, painfully endearing, the I of me, the she of her, the us only we know, alone together all these years. Call it what you like, happiness or failure, the discreet curl of her bottom lip, the hesitant green of her eyes, still lovely with surprise.

Failure

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