The Architect preferred white plates. No rims. Slick buggers, soapy and wet. A slice plowed her middle finger when she dropped one.
An ironic flip-off.
She saw blood and bone. Her meat and marrow.
Her axis tilted sideways, but she stayed upright.
Same as this morning.
She removed bandages and padding. Her non-football-loving Architect swaddled. A lop-sided linebacker.
Underneath, she found chewed meat, sealed with tape and gut. Because she loves the Architect, she’s still swallowing bile. Smiling. Holding his good hand.
I get tired of MTM's package. I mean, don't get me wrong. I like to unwrap things as much as the next girl......even when I know what's inside.
Especially when I know what's inside.
I don't like surprises.
But MTM and his package........how do I type this?
I left it in the refrigerator.
On the carton of eggs.
A post-it note message to my man.
For him to find.
Today is a special anniversary for MTM and me.
MTM used to race cars. With people who went on to become actual NASCAR drivers. He worked as a mechanic through high school and college, when his prized possession was a 1969 Oldsmobile Cutlass W-31.
(I had to google it too, Dear Reader.)
Why did I find myself in a museum exhibit called "Dream Cars" last week?
Have you waded past your first decade of marriage? Yeah, I know a hurricane can form at any moment, but by year ten, you're surfing the big waves.
Whether or not you know how to work the board.
In 2014, even an easy marriage is hard to maintain.