Gravity
Sinking into the flower-print, down cover, the depression created by our weight on the soft mattress is unwilling to separate me from the words escaping her lips in quick, breathless movements. “You and I are just too… different,” she chokes as we both sink deeper into the growing pit, struggling to inhale the stale air bellow. Crashing into a subterranean pool of memory, she reminds me of the instances where I am too logical, too scientific, and too practical to accept the life that she has laid out for us. As she uses our confined supply of air to argue one last time that the earth was created in a cold, calculated, seven days, a grin crosses my face in the dark. “What’s so funny?” she breathes into my ear, struggling unsuccessfully to sit up straight. She definitely would not accept that physics might have a will of its own.
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