Omission

That car—the one with the dented fender—

it was that same bruised burgundy color.

It made my throat go tight, like I’d swallowed a penny.

1994. The Greek diner with the sticky menus.

I knocked the water over. It was so loud.

The glass didn't shatter, it just... tipped.

I watched the cold lake grow on her sleeve,

darkening the wool, making her shiver.

I should have said something. I should have been a person.

Instead, I pointed at her plate and asked

if she was going to finish that toast.

The napkin on the table turned to grey mush.

I could see the wood grain through the pulp.