There was always evidence that I wasn’t the only one
to live with you in the Mulberry house: tack marks
remaining in jade bedroom walls. Stains from you,
dried on kitchen chairs before we met. American Airlines
tags still on your luggage, from the trip to Florida with her.
My moonstone ring under your bed for months, lying
with the small, clear hair clip I found between
the mattress and the wall (there prior
to the ring, to me). How I waited until you were at work
to grab it. How I washed my hands after throwing it away.
Every light blue hair tie that wasn’t mine, I slowly
did the same with. Is that weird for you? The photo framed
on the mantel from Thanksgiving two years ago. Me
excluded. Because it would have bothered her. Like both
of us at the bar on the same night. Me hoping to God we didn’t
have to use the bathroom at the same time. Her head
turning. The length of time you and I were gone from the table.
My hands vibrating as I tried to touch up my pumpkin lipstick
in the visor mirror. Then you, writing Taylor in block letters
with pencil, covering the paper tablecloth. Tic-tac-toe
as a distraction. But no to the earlier question, I can’t pretend
there aren’t pictures of me like this. Except wearing a blood-
speckled nurse costume, smiling with my arm around
my former. His paintings drying in my storage unit for months.
About the Author: Taylor Fedorchak lives on Maryland's Eastern Shore. In Spring 2016, she received her BA in English from Salisbury University. Her work appears in decomP, Red Earth Review, Arkana, Pittsburgh Poetry Review, and Glass: A Journal of Poetry.