Text 9:40 pm “It’s not the same without you [shrug emoji].”
Text 9:41 pm, Spotify link, “Tu Orgullo” [Your pride]
Text 9:42 pm, Spotify link, “Estoy Aquí” [I’m here]
Part of me wanted to type, are you fucking kidding me, after four years, still with this bullshit? What part of “we’re divorced” is not resonating with you? The other half of me knew that there was no possible way to reply. Every reply would be the wrong reply. To respond to the substance—really, my pride was the problem, you cheating bastard?—would be to invite more back and forth. (That our split was all about my pride was one of his constant refrains.) To remind him that I’d asked him to stop sending texts like these would bring the rejoinder that he knew that already, but couldn’t I see his true and beautiful love, a true and beautiful love that existed in and around the totally incidental cheating that went on sporadically ever since we got together when we were twenty-two? Couldn’t I see that he had given me every reason over decades to fight for him and for our relationship? What was wrong with me?
Continue reading “Ghost by Margaret Wells”
literally stories 