By Samantha Palmer
It’s Saturday afternoon. Jason tells his wife that he’s going for a beer—meets me here—she probably waves him off, blows a kiss.
“I wish you’d go.”
“No you don’t.”
He pulls me close and I wriggle like a caught fish. I have to focus on this moment—his breath, the weight of his arms, the way his leg wraps around the duvet, and his calf tenses.
“I can stay for another hour.”
Pushing my face into his side, I take in the scent of sweat and cigarettes.
I whisper into the skin over his ribs, “I wish you’d go.”
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