Disclaimer: I wrote this a LONG time ago at a writing camp. It's a story based around the beautiful "Here We Aren't, So Quickly" by Jonathan Safran Foer. If you haven't read it, you should. Right now. It's wonderful. But basically, it's the story of a marriage told only in sentences that begin with "you", "I," and "we". I modelled this story loosely around that concept. It has no dialogue, but it's short. I hope you enjoy! 

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    I never made it to class on time. I hated the way the floors creaked. I couldn’t bear the thought of college. I always wished I could stay in one place, exhausted by the thought of airline food and packing tape.

    You collected postcards and nailed them on your walls like butterflies. You had no patience for smelling flowers. You ran at rose gardens intent on being a champion, not a gardener. Your left shoelaces were always untied. You waited for friends that never came, walking up stairs that never ended.

    I wanted to fill the world with elevators because I loved the sensation of falling. I wanted to talk to you, with you, at you. I hated the songs on the radio, however catchy they were. You preferred the sound of the wind through the cracks in your windshield.  

    You always fell asleep in fifth period. I never wanted night to end. You told me maybe I should stop stalling. I never told you anything. I wanted to know why you had that scar on your forehead, but even if I spent a year with you alone I would never get the courage to ask.

    We sometimes walked to lunch together. I always got nervous when girls with chemically white teeth walked by. I secretly wondered why you never ate meat on Tuesdays – you were never religious and, as far as I knew, Tuesdays weren’t any sort of weekly religious holy day. I hated the smell of church more than I hated the stale cafeteria.

    You couldn’t talk when you got drunk. Your tongue melted into your teeth until you tasted of liquid sugar. I hated the sensation of silence on a dark road. We both had work to do but never did it when we said. You would never finish anything. I had hoped that maybe if I curled my eyelashes, you would notice my eyes were green. You always hated parties, because everyone dressed and drank and smoked the same. I secretly liked the thrill of dancing in the dark.

    I sometimes wonder why you didn’t drive. I always get disoriented at the very smell of booze. You could probably drive in five feet of snow, if you wanted, but you never want to do anything. I squeezed my eyes shut because my eyes burned, and you didn’t say anything about it. You never really said anything worth hearing anyways.

    You never told me why you loved me, or even if you loved me. I could always just see it in your face. I thought it was in the curve of your eyebrows. Sometimes when the time on my alarm clock hit three in the morning, I worried that I saw light in you that wasn’t there. You hated eye contact, and I sometimes did too.

    We couldn’t have left one second earlier or later; time sucks that way. You thought wearing watches was pretentious. I wish I had listened to my mother when she read advice to me out of her parenting books. I wish you had a mother.

    I heard it before I saw it. I swear these things try to aim for you.

    I think white is my least favorite color. We were scolded by everyone who saw. I watched them take you away from me and I wanted to scream but my throat was on fire. I wish my bones were stronger. I wish you would stop giving me the silent treatment. You never spoke to me again. I guess people think I deserve it.

    I see you every weekend. I tell myself it’s not out of guilt. You sing to me now, and you never did before. You have a voice that’s so different from the ones I hear in the halls, on the street, in the news.

    You always wanted to live in Florida. I thought you meant Disney. I think now you meant something else because you said the trees were greener, the danger thicker. I sat passenger side while you drove to the edge of the state and turned around, too scared to go further. I was always relieved when we stayed inside the lines. You said every time that one day, one day you’d make it. You would make it to Florida.

     I think somewhere, deep down, I always knew you never would.