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Sarah carries the jar to work, to bed, to the bathroom. She puts it in
her purse, on the night stand, on the sink.
It used to store boysenberry jelly.
I gave up apologizing yesterday. She kept opening the jar and making
me say it louder. After three days, the mole and shards of skin smelled
like bottled death.
I do not sleep on the couch. She might walk by any moment, with a
couple of suitcases. I bat away urges to enter the bedroom, pull back
the bandage on her ribcage, examine healing skin.
I wake up to find the little jar straddling my chest. My flinch sends
it clattering on the tile, filling the room with stench. The note on
the kitchen table says, "The only impediment to our love is yours."
I don't see it for nearly an hour. The little mole rests on the side
of my nose. It takes three tweezer attempts to remove. The super glue
leaves a mark.
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