Losing them, fixing them, forgetting to put them in
Subscribe and Save up to 45%
Deborah Shouse is the author of a petite collection of short stories, White Bread Love. She lives in Leawood, Kansas.
“I only wish I could be so young and carefree,” your father says when he comes home from work. He doesn’t remember what it’s like. The pressure, the decisions.
As I drank my tea, I hoped I wouldn’t remember my dreams tonight. Last night’s dream about Walter confused me — I hadn’t thought of him in years. He had been two lovers before Fletcher, my first serious relationship as a divorced woman. I wondered what had become of him.
I should have known Brian would leave me. I should have felt his restlessness and uncertainty. Instead, I woke up four Mondays ago with only a tattered note for a companion. I was abandoned, surprised, and angry. What good were my powers if I couldn’t predict my own life?
“I love you,” I shout. I can’t believe I spoke so directly. Usually I prefer to communicate on a more sub-conscious level. “I love you, Christa.” But Christa is already typing, and has written over my words.