These days are getting gray and unpredictable, especially, the weather and the bomb threats. With the ground shifting, the way E.B. White wrote it in The Door, it makes me wonder if I’m in some piece of literature. Maybe I’m someone’s favorite character or maybe I’m in one of those forgotten books left unread since the day it was finished. Things have been dark lately. And while I may seem lighthearted about it all, I fear just like the rest. War and his face. Getting ripped away from my family or him leaving. The anxiety is numbing. He drives me sober and everything else drives me to drink. Walking at midnight, I watch the steam rise from the pavement and flashes of a man hacking a young girl to death stops me in my tracks. When the tears drop from my eyes all I can do is scream at the top of my lungs. Hours pass and the crickets chirp. He calls me home the way he does and when I get there he knows from the dirt on my pants. He pulls me close and strips me down for the bath he had already ran for me. I can’t talk, but he can. So after I get in, he reads me Henry James til the sun shines in the window. We all have our escape, he’s mine.