How We Made Gravity about Us

by Matthew Robinson

Although we died the moment we met, we believed we could shun nothingness by getting married, act as paradigm for those just beyond the verge of giving up. The ruse held up for fourteen years. We produced two children, took out two mortgages, fought roughly twice a week. I accused you of putting your hand on the knob of the door we shut together. You took me to task about my insatiable need to recalibrate our purpose. Sleep occurred by mistake; dreams were next-day dilemmas. A neighbor left a note that our yard needed refurbishing. You watered the lawn with gasoline while I glued thorns to the hedges. We agreed, It was nice to do something together again.