The Seven Year Slip

by Ashley Poston

Miss Congeniality taught me to sing, and I was nothing if not a prepared, depressed millennial.

A bit different every time. Like Vera’s fettuccine.

Mine had chopped chunks of mushrooms and bell peppers, mayonnaise spiced with a little sriracha,

Sometimes the people you loved left you halfway through a story. Sometimes they left you without a goodbye. And, sometimes, they stayed around in little ways. In the memory of a musical. In the smell of their perfume. In the sound of the rain, and the itch for adventure, and the yearning for that liminal space between one airport terminal and the next. I hated her for leaving, and I loved her for staying as long as she could.