I write.
You wait.
The television plays.
The telephone rings.
The bathroom door opens, and closes, at your bidding.
And, when I’m finished, I yank the room, and my imagination, into darkness, with a single movement.
“I’m done!”
I listen, as I speak, for tell-tale signs of guilt I refuse to feel.
“Good!”
Your voice is buoyant, and your eyes, over glasses perched on the tip of your nose, welcoming, as you offer your arms.
© Copyright 2007-2009 Stacye Carroll All Rights Reserved
Are We There Yet? 