The man I had an affair with was the marriage counselor my husband paid a fortune to bring us together-16
Solitary Fireworks
New Year's Eve. Distant firecracker thumps. Whistling rockets. Night sky pulsed colored light. Brief. Brilliant. Bundled in my grey sale scarf, I curled on the apartment’s cold window ledge. A mug of hot water warmed my hands. Heaters struggled. Condensation misted the glass. I traced idle patterns. Outside, streets lay deserted. City lights blurred into a distant glow. Another reunion night. Here, just me. Mug heat seeped into my palms. Warm. Real. Fireworks burst afar. Light flashed across my reflection in the glass. Eyes tired. Calm. No David. No Lucas. No intricate lies. No brutal reports. Just me. My authentic solitude. And a fragile calm, slowly rising from the ruins. Like stepping onto newly formed ice. Brittle. Solid beneath.
Flickers at Dawn
First dawn of the year. Sunlight sliced through thin curtains. A slim stripe of light painted the worn floor. Dust motes danced silently within it. At my desk, I opened a fresh notebook. Untouched pages breathed faint paper scent. My pen filled deep blue-black. The nib hovered. Settled. Writing slow.
Awkward. Not stories. Not borrowed sorrows. Just simple lines. Sunlight on the sill. Fried dough scents drifting up. Last night’s solitary fireworks. Lingering warmth from a mug. Pen scratched paper. Soft whispers. Silkworms feeding. Something struggling to regrow. The path to healing stretched dark and long. Trust’s shards might pierce every step. Phantom pain lingered. Yet this soft scratching… The hesitant, true lines forming… Offered a pinprick of light at the tunnel’s end. Small. Steady. Enough to illuminate the next single step.
New Year's Eve. Distant firecracker thumps. Whistling rockets. Night sky pulsed colored light. Brief. Brilliant. Bundled in my grey sale scarf, I curled on the apartment’s cold window ledge. A mug of hot water warmed my hands. Heaters struggled. Condensation misted the glass. I traced idle patterns. Outside, streets lay deserted. City lights blurred into a distant glow. Another reunion night. Here, just me. Mug heat seeped into my palms. Warm. Real. Fireworks burst afar. Light flashed across my reflection in the glass. Eyes tired. Calm. No David. No Lucas. No intricate lies. No brutal reports. Just me. My authentic solitude. And a fragile calm, slowly rising from the ruins. Like stepping onto newly formed ice. Brittle. Solid beneath.
Flickers at Dawn
First dawn of the year. Sunlight sliced through thin curtains. A slim stripe of light painted the worn floor. Dust motes danced silently within it. At my desk, I opened a fresh notebook. Untouched pages breathed faint paper scent. My pen filled deep blue-black. The nib hovered. Settled. Writing slow.
Awkward. Not stories. Not borrowed sorrows. Just simple lines. Sunlight on the sill. Fried dough scents drifting up. Last night’s solitary fireworks. Lingering warmth from a mug. Pen scratched paper. Soft whispers. Silkworms feeding. Something struggling to regrow. The path to healing stretched dark and long. Trust’s shards might pierce every step. Phantom pain lingered. Yet this soft scratching… The hesitant, true lines forming… Offered a pinprick of light at the tunnel’s end. Small. Steady. Enough to illuminate the next single step.
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