Love, or Let Me Go

on the walls of the kitchen. Amara set out the silverware for the third time, folding

he clock once m

was a

in its platter. The risotto had clumped slightly from waiting. She'd garnished everythi

entlessly for being "fancy with feelings," particularly if she was cooking. Now, she was

air, her phone screen glowing be

chen, and turned off the warming tray

ago. In its place was something more real

clinked as they j

t the cream knit sweater. A part of her wished he would

r creak

at out, and let out a sigh. "Hey,"

ara said

utine. His hair was slightly tousled, a little lo

at seven," she said, tryi

uck at the office. Celeste wanted to go over th

rse sh

nner's cold, but

, or annoyance, or maybe both. "You didn'

ietly, crossing to the

e, pulling out a chair. Already scrolling on his p

him, sat down across from the tab

esterday. We were going over the pitch deck and she said I shouldn't have w

never minces w

it was a brittle, plastic on

e's my business partner, Amara. I see her more

tily, quietly. "It's just... sometime

ed. "What do

used to ask how I was at the end of each day. You used to care when

pushing his plate aside. "For goodness' sake, Amara

gether for more than a week. You did forget our anniversary. You did

all anything like that having occurred. "And I wor

Her voice dropped.

w black. "Don't t

s your shir

opening briefly. Then he

in the rain last week. She didn't have

s not a nag. She was not a jeal

her more than y

together. She's family. She's been there for

nced at

y her, Julian.

aking his hair back with his

n say something ne

n't stir. Didn't move. Sat there, swipin

dishes. The water ran warm over her hands. Her

ian's chair scr

to bed," he

turn arou

d of his footsteps, gone down the co

didn't

d persisted, f

s on. She rose and crossed to the window and looked out into the street below.

- a quiet determination. Like a

he tightening of her heart as she watched him laugh, remembered

ant to be like

l on the sideboard an

ne

no longer required in his stories. Perhaps I am not cut out to be the demure girl hovering on the fr

en on the desk a

room, not into bed, but to

ton

to br

line, silvering the streets below - on a wo