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Don't Forget the Milk


“Tell me you love me.”

Lie to me, she heard.

“I have loved you.”

She was fluent in compromise. It was how she managed to live with him without living with him; without growing or going in the same direction at the same time.

Jeremy didn’t often notice.

“What happened to us?”

You! Abigail wanted to scream.  Instead she slowly sipped her coffee, thick with sugar, syrupy with Crème. Sips allowed Abigail time to edit her words. Only two more weeks until she was back home with her husband—the man she hoped to love again. Abigail had fallen in and out of love many times —just never with the same person. She hoped; they both hoped—just for different things.

“In two weeks I’ll be leaving for Iraq. When I come back things will be different.”

“I think you’re right,” Abigail agreed, smiling and sipping and editing her words.


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