Our anniversary is on the least convenient day and we celebrate in the kitchen, by not even leaving the house.
My parents say things like, “You shouldn’t be here,” or they ask as a question: “Should you be here?” and “What are you doing?” and “What colour is that? Beige?”
But there’s never been a misplaced skin piece, an unadorned plateful. And the day I wake wishing you dead, well, that’s the day I leave and not seconds before, on someone’s command, without alternatives, suggestions.
You button the back of my dress and help me tie my laces. You’re a lot older than I am.