The clock on the wall has been stuck at 8 for days.
The tab on the folder resting on the nightstand says divorce papers.
I haven’t changed clothes in days.
Vindictiveness crawls the length of my spine.
I haven’t eaten in three days and two nights.
Footsteps slip through the door with a skirt fit on her tight frame.
She held a pen to my head, begging me to sign the papers.
I used it as a dagger, poking her until she doubled over and giggled. She said something about how she needed more laughter and stayed.
We had makeup sex for two days.
A baby is due in eight months and three days.