Old News

There’s a woman out there who pines for your strong arms to wrap around her tiny little waist, the one she keeps small by eating three meals a day consisting of crackers and cheese and some water on the side.
She holds her head up, palms together, when she sleeps so she wakes with a slight crick in her neck that twists apart when she’s lifting chairs before the restaurant opens in the morning.
When she’s reading off the specials or sweeping the floor she’ll think of your heady scent wafting into her nose or your fierce look, fooling herself with the realness of your figure she’ll look up thinking you’re right outside the window.
Some days, when the weather is nice, she walks down the street to the little park bench, the one you used to sit on and talk for hours with her while licking up melted ice cream from her pale slender fingers.
In the mornings she pushes the water hotter and hotter until her skin turns sunburned red and she perspires while washing the foamy soap off her breasts, caressing them the way you would.
Before she falls asleep, every night she’ll pray for your safe return and wonder if you’ll ever send a letter like you promised you would, afraid they’ve all gotten lost somewhere in the Atlantic.


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