Sliced

Her brow hangs low today, a shelf above the dark blue pools of her eyes and the straight-razor of her lips. And so when I see her emerge from the bedroom, severe pink bathrobe, arms crossed on her chest, her slipper-padded footsteps thudding the off-white shag dating back to another generation, the one we had displaced from this domicile perhaps prematurely, when I see her thus, I sink. And yet, we never got around to shedding it, the off-white shag, even though it made our nostrils flare when we stood still and considered it. To what do I owe my current guilt, which also strangely perfumes the air when I think upon it? Have I stepped in dog doo-doo yet again or left the can lid up unceremoniously? I agree I am egregious. I agree I may never find the vehicle with which to improve or redeem myself, and yet I push on. Don’t you admire this at least, my relentlessness? Don’t look at me like that. Her voice slices me in half.