Talking at Night

by Claire Daverley

She will work hard, she will do all that she is supposed to do, and her life will be good and right and whole, filled with music and poetry and wine and sex, and life-altering moments

I figure we’re all dying with every day, he says. So we might as well do what we want, before it happens.

She feels cold, and shaken, all of the time, like an upturned snow globe. Spinning, and empty, and full.

I’d say you just love the idea of her, then, she says. You’re pinning everything on something you’ve never even had. Something that’s not real.

She does not feel satisfied, but she feels safe and calm and poised, and that’s okay, because that’s what she’d needed. What she needs.

She misses him like a vital organ.

I wish I’d done everything on earth with you,

she should have someone who burns for her;

the peace he’s made with the things he did and the people who left and the way the sun keeps rising, regardless.

I don’t want to shoot for things that bleed me dry, anymore; I want things that fill me up, and I don’t care what they are, as long as you’re there, and I’m there with you. I want to make you breakfast, Will. Meet you at home, every day, and share car keys and toothpaste and surprise you with birthday candles.