Little Lies

By Kimberly Ann Priest

“Have you gone mad my husband?”
PAULA, Gaslight, 1944

I watch the fluttering wings of a spongy moth against the
window’s
screen. She wants to unbarrier herself and swoop into
the sunlight breaking upon this semi–cold morning. The dryer
warms its belly behind us and I pull a blanket tighter
over my shoulders waiting for July to strengthen its countenance
and face me like a lion or a man. None of this tepid sociopathic
vacuity that lures me to wait forever to really start my day
as the weather decides to alter its seasonal beats. The dryer stops
and I linger over my coffee. 7:35 AM. I stand and wrap
the blanket around my breasts and let it fall like a curtain around
me
swooshing toward the dryer anticipating its warm breeze
upon opening. I haven’t seen my husband in two days; only
wakened
at midnight to his heavy sleep–drugged breathing, gone by the
time
I witness the space next to me again. The dryer heat greets me.
I unfasten my curtain and let it steep my pores in light sweat.
Years from now I will learn that my body is beautiful from other
men. Years from now, there will be night and morning sex,
kisses after, cold sweat, warm hands, oysters, tequila, and
moonrise.