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10/17/11(Mon)05:51 No.30650270Cheerilee ponywife!
Honey, I'm home! She gives the door a lazy slam, like she does every day. Considering how she loafs about on the couch every afternoon, you're surprised she has the breath to yell every time she comes back to the apartment. You hear the crash and feel the vibrations of a floor abused rattling up your legs. She only teaches middle school, how on earth does she get so many papers to grade? When you enter the living room, she is splayed out in a pose that borders on scandalous had you not been dating her for two years now. You can see the wrinkles entrenching in her face, but you pay them no mind. After your messy divorce, you decided didn't want girls anymore. You wanted a woman. And Cheerilee was a woman. She yanks your arm and pulls herself up, and throws her weight onto your body, her head slumped on your shoulder. It's hard, she says. Hard to keep up with those kids day after day. She's not young like she used to be, but god dammit she'll keep up with them. She heaves herself off of you and asks if you'd be a dear and get the scrapbook. When you return, she has a beer in each hand, passing one off to you. You sit down and open the book. On the first page is a photo taped together. It is ripped straight down the middle, on the left her and yourself on the right. Fifteen, sixteen years ago, the two of you looked so young, and yet you had not yet met. It was a terrible photo editing job with scotch tape right down the middle, but seeing it make the both of you glow. She turns to you, her breath in your ear. Cheers, she says as her bottle clinks with yours. |
