She wasn’t the only wronged wife they knew; yet she sensed her estrangement sealed in his new braided rugs and yellow sofa cushions. Still, she forced a smile.
“Look at this view,” he said, pulling back the curtains. “The sunsets are gorgeous!”
Of course there was no sunset now— just a wide blue and grey expanse of sky numb with uncertainty. A small bird marched the outdoor balcony, and she suddenly felt stabbed by the cruel fact she could not, and would not, ever fly.
“You can’t have a beach condo without a view,” he boasted as the bird pecked the polished railing.
For years he would come home from work and watch her boil water for pasta. She had felt a quiet urgency in his eyes while watching the steam rise and said nothing.
“No, you can’t.”
Before she could say anything else, the bird was gone.
Petrula Laudato is a writer living in Boston, MA.