business trip
by Marla
I am stirring your words
into my coffee in the hopes that it would sweeten
the fact that you are
leaving me again. There are eggs on the table, and rows
of sausages all lined up
neatly, like school children waiting to board the bus
for a field trip that
would take them to see sharks, whales, giant squid, sea creatures
majestic and much larger
than life. If breakfast at half-past four in the morning
seems odd, it is because
your departure still feels like a stranger, even though
we’ve met so many times
before—I can never remember his last name, or what
he does for a living, or
who our mutual friends are. Your departure always feels
like a stranger. Mom
often says you’ll be back before I know it, which is never true,
which makes me wonder if
you are always back before she knows
it, which makes
me think she must not
miss you very much. I know this isn’t fair, probably isn’t
true, even. But I also
know: people should always miss you when you go.
I am stirring your words
into my coffee in the hopes that it would sweeten
my sour milk breath,
fermented in the five hours I slept furiously, dreaming
about airports and plane
crashes, pilots with mustaches and eye patches, hungry
suitcases that swallow
human body parts, empty conveyor belts that never stop
moving. Don’t wake her up for breakfast, you
told Mom once, but even at rest my body
can sense your bare feet
touching the cool tiled floor, hear the swoosh your arms make
against the satin lining
when you push them through the sleeves of your crisp gray suit.
Even as I lie in bed I
know that downstairs Mom is cracking an egg open, leaving
the butter out to soften,
arranging fresh fruit in a bowl, a chorus of colors: orange and
yellow and
green. Red. My eyes are sore, rubbed raw: Don’t cry, honey. Don’t cry. I will
try to do as you say
but there is a swim meet tonight and nobody can detect tears
underwater; nobody has to
know that every time you are not around it is easy
to allow myself to sink.
I am stirring your words
into my coffee in the hopes that it would sweeten
this goodbye, and all the
ones that will come after. I am stirring your words:
Good luck, honey. I’m so proud of you. Sorry I
have to go. I love you. I lift
the cup to my lips
too soon, burn my tongue.
It is hard to taste anything. It is hard to taste anything
but the soggy replies
stuck to the roof of my mouth: Don’t go.
I need you. Don’t go.
There are eggs on the
table, untouched, and rows of sausages lined up
neatly, waiting. Your
departure still feels like a stranger, and I am terrified
that someday you will,
too.