The Oldest of Days

 A tightness grips my throat like a vice. The pillow is wet with tears without me even realizing it. I wipe the right side of my face. A pill and a gulp of water straight from the pitcher releases my throat from the cinch of anger. The thought of the impending chemical comfort settles me. This morning merely out of reflex, I asked her what she would be doing today. "Just the chores", she replies, "unless you have something you want to do?" Lately, I've been trying to be mindful of every real and imagined conversation in my head. Sometimes the imagination is the fuel to a fire sparked off by a simple interaction. Like a video game character who has various options to respond with, I exercise this concept and choose an uncommittable answer, instead of bringing up the many past times I've tried to include her in my plans but was only turned away. In that moment, I feel like a loser, turning to someone whose company I hate, for company. Here we go again. The mur...