He comes home late, breezes through and reminds me of that song. He smiles; this is how it’s done. How he’s always done it.
You are my trophy, that smile says. You are my possession.
I try to remember the day but I cannot. Time is endless. Back, forward. Now.
M. Blackmars is a writer in New England.
It could’ve been a sofa ad. “Second-hand, some surface wear, but generally in good shape.”
It made Keith chuckle, like Ann used to, before they got sunk by two kids, twenty years, and brutal familiarity.
Waiting, twisting her napkin, Ann wished he hadn’t picked this restaurant. It was Keith’s favourite.
Tamsin isn’t even sure that lonely hearts ads still exist, but would like to think that they haven’t been killed off by Tinder.
I fell in love rapidly,
with a strong, sweet, chivalrous man.
You adored me then…
before the breakdown.
It took you away. I understand.
I’m not the same so you’re not the same man.
I patiently await your return.
I’ll never give up.
Please! We can fall in love again.
April is a hopeless romantic, even in hard times. Life equals love.
She claimed she needed the window seat—”It’s to prevent me from puking my guts out during turbulence, baby”—but I knew what she really wanted was to stare out into the wispy clouds, to hide from the reality that our relationship had been free falling for quite some time.
Christopher Gonzalez is a writer and graduate of Vassar College, where he won the 2015 Ann E. Imbrie Prize for Excellence in Fiction Writing. Born in Virginia, raised in Ohio, he currently lives in Brooklyn and works in eBook production. You can find his writing at chris-gonzalez.com.