Wilma had entreated with idle oaths, but Ann’s mountains could not be moved. On that damp day, with spring’s first rain coating the windows, Ann had broken up with Wilma, fragmented their dreams of going to New York together, unleashed a storm bigger than the one that lashed the shingles of their house.
With a little foresight, Wilma might have predicted this. She might have seen how frayed their relationship was during the Christmas party at Ann’s parents’ house, Ann’s elastic definition of Wilma’s presence to her mother. Wilma might have clutched at any straws she had left, wept, held on like sea lice, on the back of a whale – but she did not claim that right.
She sat on the sofa, as rain made its voyage into the gutter, stared at the lamp and the coffee table, in the now silent and empty house.
See also:
Elizabeth Bishop, “The Fish”
Edna St. Vincent Millay, “I Shall Forget You Presently, My Dear”
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