The Missing Half

by Ashley Flowers

My fingers tighten around my bike handles. Most people’s reaction when they’re confronted is fight or flight. I freeze. And I hate myself for it.

Over time, my grief has morphed to anger. Now it lives just beneath my skin. Prick it and I bleed.

the truth is I haven’t been getting over anything. I’ve been methodically numbing myself to it. And even so, any semblance of peace I have feels as if it’s balancing on the edge of a knife. One breath and it would all tip over.

“Oh, please. I can’t remember exactly when it started, but I woke up one morning, and suddenly you only seemed to notice me when the dishes went unwashed or dinner wasn’t on the table on time. Nobody thinks housewives have lives or stories or feelings, let alone secrets.”