by Jennifer Falkner
Each kiss is a capitulation. He is complicit in his own unhappiness. In the absence of a second youth, when he might have had the energy or wit for a different sort of life, there is only this - a migration from home to work to home, with his laundry predictably folded and dinners predictably made. He used to think of her as his first wife. Yet her lips are soft, her kisses never sloppy. It could be worse.
Jennifer Falkner has fiction appearing in The First Line, Flashquake and various other places. She lives in Ottawa.