4:10 a.m.
Phil fumbles for my zipper.
I grab his hand, no.
My knees pressed together, no.
It’s not like I worry about burning
in hell, like some goody-two-shoes.
It’s not like I want to save myself for
my husband; I already know who he is,
Phil.
I imagine the not-you-too look on my
mom’s face if another rabbit dies. When
hers died she got expelled from high school
and a shotgun wedding that keeps misfiring.