she says

what’s this, she says, holding up a jar of mayonnaise that you’ve been wondering what happened to. that’s my mayonnaise, you say, picking it up to see if it’s cold. it’s not.
where was it, you ask.
I found it in there, she says, pointing to the buffet against her dining room wall.
why did you put it in there, you ask.
I didn’t put it there, she insists.
it’s just about midnight. she is looking through all the boxes in her bedroom that she has begun to pack in anticipation of the big move you both will soon be making. she says someone keeps moving things around from box to box.
you ask what she’s looking for, but she doesn’t seem to know.
why is everyone taking my things, she sobs. why can’t I have the things that are important to me.
no one is taking your things, you say. it’s all here, somewhere. you forgot where you put them. no one wants your stuff, you say. we have our own stuff.
I love you, she says. you came out of my body. why do you want to do this to me. why do you want to make me think I’m crazy, she says.
go to sleep, you say. tomorrow you’ll be rested and you’ll be able to find what you’re looking for.
you go back across the hall. turn on the computer. it’s almost twelve-thirty.
the phone rings. did you take the photo I have of you, she says.
no, I didn’t, you say. it’s there somewhere.
you’ll fix it for me tomorrow, she says. good night, she says.

2 thoughts on “she says

  1. I’m going through the same thing. “No, I’m not stealing all your stuff. It’s in storage, remember? I’m coming back to move it all back into your room.” It doesn’t help that everyone keeps lamenting the fact that she doesn’t have her stuff around her anymore. Or that they keep asking her where it is, keep asking me, where is it? It’s in storage. It’s safe. It is inventoried. You all watched me pack it, move it, I showed the contract to everyone, I’ve got the key on my keyring.
    Out of sight — out of their frickin’ minds.

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