Fly

They said I should enjoy every moment of my marriage; the time will just fly by.

They didn't say I'd be saving my cigarettes, scraping them against the curb whenever I go to town for groceries, carrying them around in a vinyl change purse while I stock up on damaged goods--dented cans of corn and five-day-old bread riding around in a cart with a wonky wheel.

They didn't say my husband would blacken my eyes when the kids bring home C's, necessitating a big floppy hat that fools no one, especially Margie, who sells me pea salad and shimmering squares of gelatin half off, even though it's not sale day yet. She dishes up a styrofoam container of gelatin and offers it with shaky hands and a congealed smile across the sterile counter of the deli and I examine the skin on her arms for the burn marks of which we will not speak.

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