I am going to write every fucking day even if I have nothing to say. Sertraline sure does dam up my creative rivers, though not the river outside the window, nor the River asleep in the next room.
Our fairytale began subsumed, occupied. A stolen narrative. I could tell it here, albeit modified to preserve privacy.
The first time I saw him, He opened the door to Her little cabin, where I was watching Their son. I remember the bookshelf contents; divine union and soulmate this, and ecstatic sex for the conscious whatever-the-fuck, and I assumed, wrongly, that A. he was happily in ecstatic union or B. if he wasn’t ecstatic, he was basically married. Also, he was thirty five and a father.
Of course, these were just thoughts in my mind. I said hello to Him and left.
He was in my near and far periphery for the next five years. I had a baby. I went to college. I left my ex, finally. I dropped out of college. I invited Him to my walkout basement apartment in small town BC on a July weekend, 2014.