Prime Time Romance

Grief is love with no place to go.

It’s weird to be dating again. Like reading a book where you’ve already snuck a peek at the last chapter and you know the ending isn’t the happily ever after you were always promised.

She looks tired. Not just the kind of tired that comes with a late night out. The kind of tired that settles into your soul, leaving your eyes just a little dimmer and knocking the bounce out of your walk.

You can’t start the next episode of your life if you keep rewatching the old one.

What do you think of the kombucha?“ he asks. It tastes like sadness. I don’t tell him this, of course. Mostly because my mouth is still full and both unable and unwilling to swallow. Instead, I draw a deep breath through my nose, telling myself that on the count of three, I’ll force it down. One… Two… I’m too late. My gag reflex overpowers my sheer will. Instead of swallowing, I spray. Like a Saturday-morning cartoon. All over the picnic blanket.