42 Days Late and $32 Dollars Short

Staring into the mirror, I wonder. How long? How long before he notices? Already been three days and he hasn't commented, hasn't said a word. How could he not? He sees everything. How does he not see this?

Your pants are too long. Your pants are too tight. Your pockets are uneven. The part in your hair is crooked. The cereals aren't lined up. Saute pan is supposed to be a few inches to the left. You already have shampoo. Fold it in thirds, then in half, never half then thirds. Ever.

There is a hair on the floor.

Paste not gel. Detergent then softener. The pot is going to boil over. You let it get cold. If you play with yourself, you'll grow hair on your palm. Germs. Who's on the phone. It's 2 a.m. There is pollen on the car. Dot the t's and cross the eyes. Always always cross the ‘I'.

You are using the wrong pot.

Big whisk, not small. Spatula, not flipper. Measure twice, cut once. Vacuum across then down. You left the light on. Another nail polish? Don't run the water while you wash. You are five minutes early. You'll go when I say so.

It's all about the fucking crackers.

Forty-two days late and thirty-two dollars short.

You noticed everything. You prowled the house with a candle and a feather. And it still took you six weeks to notice I'd removed my wedding band.

You see everything but you don't see me.

You see nothing.