Afterward, you rest your palm on my cheek, in the space between my strawberry birthmark and chin, in the space between your distant wife and my short-tempered husband.
“I won’t leave her,” you say. “My kids…”
“We can’t keep doing this,” I say, throwing off the threadbare cotton sheet.
But we do.
Not all poisons come from toxins. Even vitamins can be poisonous. Or water. That which sustains also destroys, in high enough doses.
So we run away into the gaps, between weekday teleconferences and Sunday’s banana waffles, between sign-ins at day care and the quiet thrum of our paper-doll lives.