Clean Slate

By Marie Scampini

He asked me to marry him the night he landed a great job. Ben was creating a paint-by-numbers life that included me as color #3. I was an expressionistic muralist splattering—a kaleidoscope across the world.

#4, was marriage.

“If we’re together in five years time, then, yes.”

“I want to marry you now.”

I saw my last two years with him spiral outward: Valentines cards, dinner with his parents, so many lost arguments.

I felt heat from his body. He opened his eyes surprised I was staring at him, in tears.

“I need a clean slate,” was all I said.

He flinched.