You Deserve Each Other

by Sarah Hogle

I know in my leaf-ogling, beanie-loving, pumpkin-gorging soul that I’d be a basic bitch even if I had neutral undertones. It’s in my DNA.

The living room is where your grandchildren’s fondest memories of you will be born, and that’s where they’ll always picture you long after you’re gone. Every time they smell wood smoke or hot chocolate, it will pull them back in time to the sound of your voice rising and falling like a melody as you read to them.

If this drought goes on any longer I’ll be lusting after the featureless figure on men’s restroom signs.

I’m watering the Charlie Brown tree because I have love to give and nowhere meaningful to dump it.

Wrapped in gold foil paper he kept for so long, I can still hear the crinkling.

But he wore the Stetson every day from then on, even when his grin faded and our relationship transitioned from Before to After. He used up every last drop and didn’t throw away the bottle.

He’s burrowed so deep beneath my surface, there’s no separating him from tendons and bones, no getting him out of my blood.

I swing my arm back and am about to let it go when Nicholas catches my wrist. He plucks the invitation from my fingers, slips down off the car, and walks over to the dumpster. He very deliberately drops it inside.