january air and red wine make her thirsty

i.

on the table all four glasses are upturned, milk running down the sides of every object in the room and you recount them (three on the table now, one on the floor) try to match the faces with the glasses; count only three.

you haven't seen her since tuesday

although you can't remember which one and work called twice while you were out doing the shopping, didn't leave a message so you didn‘t call back. but tomorrow you'll try to convince your boss that you were late because you locked the baby in the car and when the door froze the neighbours tried to pry it open with a hairdryer. but at least he won't fire you.

and you dislike what you remember about her: the
way she always smiled too long after saying
hello, how the cigarette smoke lingered in your
mouth after kissing her, the feel of her lips,
moving over yours.

ii.

mid-week you wash your hair in the sink at your office building because they cut off your hot water again and you still can't wash her smell from your body even though you've been trying for weeks. and you know that you've been screaming for her late at night because now the toddler calls her by her first name, paints lipstick on all the old pictures of her that you've spread over the kitchen table in the hopes that he'll remember her

smile, kiss, lips

so that you can forget.

iii.

they haven't fixed the water yet and you're standing in the living room with the baby in your arms and milk stains on your jeans trying to rewind a cartoon video but the toddler's in the bathtub screaming and you can't hear him because the water's running and you haven't stopped

since tuesday

although you can't remember which one.