The phone flashed Your new kitchen

The phone flashed. Your new kitchen.

A bright, clean sweep of

quartz, or granite, I can't tell,

doesn't matter.

We mapped it out, remember?

Over lukewarm coffee,

spread out on my warped pine,

drawing squares for the sink,

the island we’d never afford.

Your smile, wide, oblivious,

clinking wine against the new shine.

It's beautiful.

And it's not mine.

The light off that perfect counter

hits my eye, a sudden,

unexpected sting.

A kind of blindness.