Wishbone

In the hot-garbage haze of a New York summer, a woman in powder blue chiffon shifts against a floral sheet. Sweat tingles down her temple, red fingernails itch the reachable space between freckles on her lower back. It isn’t easy for her to fall sleep: the weight of her husband’s hand on her hip pressures her into the mattress. If she’d let it, it would break through her skin and crunch her rib cage like a wishbone. If she’d let it, it would compress her in halves. If she’d let herself, she’d walk out the backdoor and into the warm blue night.

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