He’s not him.

I’m not feeling the blogginess right now. Instead, here is some fiction.


She took a step back from him, her shoulders dropping and a lock of dark hair falling from behind her ear. She wanted to crawl inside herself, to reverse and take back what had been said. She wanted to take back what had been done. She stared at the floor, hardwood her husband had installed himself with pride when she grew sick of the carpeting. She saw dust lining the baseboards; they really needed to be cleaned and repainted before next month. She was hosting a dinner party for her husband’s colleagues and she didn’t want them thinking she was completely useless.

The last party had resulted in her spending the evening filling drinks and switching out hor d’oeuvres. Once everyone had sat down for dinner – which she served as if she were the maid – they still kept her in and out of her seat requesting drink refills, specific condiments, and ‘oh I’ll just have another serving of the salad; I’m a vegetarian’ from a woman who was obviously younger and more successful than her hostess. She’d heard a snide comment or two, whispered under breath and surely not actually meant for her ears. She knew what they thought of her, the lowly housewife who couldn’t even bear her husband children.

“Do not test my patience, Olivia.”

The tone in his voice was a growl in her ear. Her eyes went back to the baseboards. She tracked the striped wallpaper she hated with a passion until her eyes landed on the lamp shaped like an owl. At the boutique it had seemed kitschy; in their home it look tacky. In the store, her husband had argued with her over the price. She had stood her ground, professing a love for the dark wood owl, and now she was stuck with it out of principle. The owl, too, had a fine layer of dust. When was the last time she’d dusted the living room?


She looked up at him. The growl was gone, replaced with a question mark. When had that crease between his eyes become so prominent? The same concern she’d seen all those years ago was in his eyes now. That concern when the doctor had told her the first bit of bad news – your unborn baby is dead – and the second bit that caused her to spiral into what her husband had referred to in proper company as a ‘bad spell’.

She shook her head, more hair spilling from behind her ear and covering her face in a mask of curls.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered to the green eyes, the question mark fading between them.

He filled the space between them with a single stride.

“Don’t do that. Don’t apologize for speaking your mind. I’m not him.” He whispered into her heart, holding her as she buried her face into the space where she knew his heart to be.

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