Married?
Barely.
To her own op-shop brand of boyfriend.
Hunkered down in a grit-dust apartment with crystals in the bed.
A bra tangled artfully around a broken comb, arranged on a book of poems no publisher would see.
There’s a cat somewhere, dragging life through the stale rooms.
White hair, a 60s carpet that comes away when scratched with idle fingernails digging for a gauze.
Glamorise the dirt, darling.
Wait till you’re 40 and the dim light and smoked mirrors have left you, Instagrammed out, with the awkward orphan escaping as the fridge door opens.
Do we have any eggs, he’ll say.
And you’ll feel empty.