July 4, 2009

Henry is just alright. He’s a lawyer. He doesn’t hold me like my husband does or talk to me about anything of substance, but that laugh lights a flame in me. Anyways, it’s the same every time. We pretend to watch a movie. He fucks me and I take the train back home.

On the train, I am unloading it all. The past few months have stacked emotions inside of me, I haven’t been able to let out. I open my wallet and the small photo the agency gave us falls onto the floor. I pick it up. The tears flood as we begin to slant on. How do I miss someone I’ve never met? I drag my feet on the platform. It’s the same every time.

In January, my husband would sometimes fall asleep on the floor of the nursery and when I got home I would see him there, in his work clothes, and hope the floor would open up. He would fall through with that goddamn room and I wouldn’t be such a shooting star anymore.

But I would rouse him to crawl into bed and when I would wake to find he has left me coffee and a note on the bedside table, I cross my heart and anxiously tell God:

i’m sorry! I’m sorry!

But it made me start seeing Henry more and more. I drank in his laugh. I took the train. Is it the train’s fault that it goes? That all of the passengers yearn for security in the slanting noise the train makes on the track?

I took my husband out for dinner tonight. I told him I had a surprise. We sat down for dinner, and a woman behind us at another table rattled on about seeing fireworks over the hill.

Richelle Kota is an immigrant, writer, nature enthusiast and educator living in Philadelphia. Her work has been published by Calyx Press, Yes Poetry, Peach Mag, and Hidden City Daily amongst others. She aspires to live a very simple life on a farm with pigs, goats, and dogs. You can follow her on Instagram @richelle.work and visit her website at www.richelle.work.