1995

i don’t know how He got the wedding ring off Her finger. i just remember by the end of the night it was in the neighbor’s backyard. lost. to the never mowed grass, the dandelions, and the thistles.
they had a backyard. we had asphalt and a dumpster. both were fun.
“how’d you break your arm?”
Her yellow cast was glaring in the dining room light. no one signed it.
“I slipped on the ice walking to bus stop from work. I am so clumsy.” Her laugh was as out of place as the unnatural yellow of the cast.
She drew back her arm. swung hard. recoiled even faster. He looked unfazed. the ring was gone.
don’t tuck your thumb.
when samantha insulted my friend, i remembered. thumb out. i swung, landed, swung again. no recoil. until a teacher and group of peers surrounded me. my plaid skirt was covered in gravel, my jelly shoes filled, but my arms... free.
i looked at Her. She can. i can. He can’t.
“you seem so much older. how did you learn to be so grown up little lady?”
He replies, “she is really 36. smokes and drinks black coffee everyday.”
“unfiltered,” i reply as i slide off the bar stool. it is closing and bob said i could call out, “last call” to the remaining.
He walks with his head down, mumbling, from the bus stop. Her waist gets larger.
“do do do do, here comes the bus, do do do,” She sings to me.