Selene

Were my hands cold around your neck? My disgust pulsated through arteries to the tips of my tightening fingers. You looked at me, in sullen blue, with cold indifference. “You haven’t changed for me,” I say, feeling nauseous, my stomach shifting like tides. Your detached glare infuriates me. Hatred, like a jagged knife, carves my deep disdain and repulsion for you. What is it about you, Selene, that has such a hold on me? The sea of vodka pushes its way to my throat, spilling onto your Kashmir rug you got in Morocco. I wipe my mouth on the back of my white collar dress shirt, staring into the kindling fireplace. Your religious paraphernalia clutters the living room. Crosses, bibles, The Mother Mary, Jesus, and various other saints stare at me from all sides. I half expect you to move but you lie still, frozen by the late January air coming in from the balcony. Your cat sits on the outside table, and when I look at her, she hisses and prepares to run. My hands, now delicate, trace the bruises and veins of your tender neck. Like roadmaps leading to titanic waters, venturing too deep into you is fatal—my death already predestined at the coldness of your touch.