The Wall of Winnipeg and Me

by Mariana Zapata

Our marriage—vomit, hurl, and diarrhea—wasn’t

For one moment, I thought about picking up my suitcase and throwing it at him. Immature, sure. Unnecessary, yes. But it would have made me feel better.

I only wanted to make sure you made it back fine and you weren’t going to kill me in my sleep for flaking out on you. Then I got mad.” I had thought about killing him, but it surprised me just a little bit that he assumed I would think that.

The end has come. He’s opening up to me.

“You’ve put some thought into this,” he said slowly. “Of course I have.” He didn’t need to know I’d been plotting his murder then.

“I’ll always try to be honest with you,” I lied, hesitantly.