On the Afternoon I Write My Husband Another Note

By Amanda Yanowski

I sit in my gray office and scribble words onto a piece of stationary I wish I could remember picking out, yellow flowers wrapping around the edges.

Believe me when I say I do not have a choice. And I am so sorry. And I tried to fix myself.

It’s like pushing pins through my lungs to let the air escape.

I pocket the note and retreat to the industrial stairwell down the hall that echoes even the lightest footfalls. There, I climb to the top floor and back down three flights—over and over until my ankles ache and my glasses fog with every breath.

At home I sink into the big blue chair near the living room window, thoughts curling like ribbons. I remember that for a while, I did most of my living from underneath a pile of blankets in the corner of a closet, months bracketed by days of manic bathroom scrubbing and past due bill paying.

How do we survive the sharp jumps of our own evolution?

I slide the note under my jewelry box with the others, then wind up the key and listen as the music fades away.

Amanda Yanowski is a writer and editor living in Denton, Texas. Her work has appeared in Atticus Review, Passages North, Bellingham Review, Hobart, and elsewhere

Picture by Green Chameleon courtesy of Unsplash