I wrote something pretty

Look:

I left him in November, in the middle of an ice storm—my first—it was beautiful and scary and not at all what I had expected. I didn’t know that the trees would turn into chandeliers along the Coralville strip, and I didn’t know how little I wanted the warmth of his back against mine while I slept. Except I didn’t actually leave.

Then I left him in June, and I did.

It was two weeks before the Fourth of July. It would have been our anniversary. Mike bought sparklers anyway. I have a contact sheet with pictures of him, in the blue light of a shadow, sitting on the pavement outside our apartment, tiny fires levitating above his hands. I never printed them.

Anyway, I think it's pretty. There may not be much else, content-wise, but I like pretty things.

Also I made my appointment at the Emma Goldman Clinic, and before I gave my address, the woman says, "you live at G's old house, don't you?"  (She sometimes brings us eggs.)  Perhaps my next t-shirt will say: IOWA CITY: NOT VERY BIG.