You said you don’t know how to love me anymore.

We ate leftover stuffing in front of the tv.

I told you that I am bad at being alone, that I am bad at sleeping alone. That I crave the way your side of the bed is softer and how I respect that you keep journals around so you can record facts about volcanic activity in Hawaii.

You told me that you remember when I flirted with the sexy farmer who let us ride his Arabian horses. 

You said it’s too hard to know that I like sex with men. 

You lit a cigarette and said you needed to go see your ex, Calista. She lives near the sugar maples and she taps them every March. I can’t enjoy her maple syrup, knowing that she has a hold on you in a way that I can’t.

You put the cigarette out in the sink.

“Please come home,” I said. “We can look for Cassiopeia tonight.”

“I’ll see you tonight,” you say.

I watch you climb up into the red truck that you’ve had for years. You can’t seem to trade it in because it works just fine, you say. The sound of the radio follows you as you drive away. I can still smell your cigarette. My loneliness is loud. I carry our plates to the sink.

You can go your own way

You can call it another lonely day

Maybe we’re all hard to love in the end.

—

[Assignment: Your piece can be fiction, non fiction, memoir or poetry but it must contain a food known for its consumption during a particular holiday, the name of a deciduous tree, a lyric from a 70’s song, the name of a breed of horse, a geologic event and the name of a constellation. WORD LIMIT: 250]