By Grace Ruth
He keeps his heart on her kitchen counter. Green jar, brown cork. He used to wear it on his sleeve, hold it in his hands, to give to anyone who wanted to take it. Sometimes, he misses those days. She can see it in his eyes. Green eyes, just like the jar.
She keeps her heart behind her ribs, like iron bars. She will never move it anywhere, ever again. Whenever she wakes up and eats, she sees the green jar, and feels bad. A little bit bad.
It’s nothing major. She’s not sure if she’s ever felt anything like that.
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