Tape

Their stairs are very narrow and edged in silver duct tape to stop the carpet coming apart at the rise of each step. Their house is wonderful. Perfect in its worn-in way. They do not seek perfection and so it is sticky all over them. They’ve stuck, love struck. They have been married for thirty years.

Nigel says how lovely it is to see me. He asks about my family, my husband. I mutter things. I’m wretched in the face of their long-time love. He says that it is very hard, being married. It’s very hard. It’s so hard. It’s verydifficultactuallyhideoussomeofthetime hard. And then he says a lovely thing.

It means a lot, this. You don’t know how much it all means right now, but you will.

*

David and I are separating.

*

In trying to tape over the broken places I stuck us together until our hands were bound, our mouths were gagged, our eyes were glued shut, our ears were stuffed up. Hostage to grief and love and obligation.

I once saw a mouse on a sticky board. Gnawed his leg right through. David and I, we’ve allowed our bond to become fleshy and gone to work on it with sharp teeth.

No.

No.

It must not continue as it is now.

We must peel ourselves away from the safety of our misery.

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