First Year Off
by Julia Remick
I lipsticked his messages
on coffee-ringed envelopes
and napkins. Late mornings
after he'd left, I would invert
his pockets for change.
I humiliated myself
with soap operas,
advice columns, three-hour
naps. I planned my showers
around those things, contemplated
reasons to shave my legs.
Summer had been healthier.
Everything to work on: him
and an even tan. Then the fall
into September drained
like a long solo drive.
Like a sick day.
I would tell him this and he'd say,
Why don't you put on
some clothes and we'll
go to a movie.