by Greta Igl
What bothers her most is the inequity. That her love is an inferno; his, an unlit match. That hers is a raging hurricane; his, a few fat, halfhearted drops. She does what she can, pours her passion on him like wine from a deep vessel, but it just runs off, the pans of homemade lasagna, the thoughtful gifts for no reason, the surprise cleaning of his furry shower. Oh, he appreciates it, appreciates her, but she knows it’s in that temporary way, like a college kid appreciates his mom doing his laundry. Soon it will be time to move on, him to something brighter, something that matters, her to a lifetime of regret.
Greta Igl enjoys writing sixes as a diversion from short stories and the two novels she's been toiling at forever. To read her self-serving blather about writing, visit her here.