I wake up sweating. Click on the ceiling fan. “You gonna leave it on high?” he asks from beneath four blankets. We argue. I concede. When his father officiated our ceremony, he made us repeat till death three times. Now, twenty-seven years later, we’re in another throe of death. I’m hot; he’s not. I turn down the fan, certain that with my mood swings he’ll be reminded of our vows at least three times tomorrow. We’ll go on like this until we’ve no more to give and our souls are free. I just hope his soul doesn’t leave without me.
Keturah Fountaine is an emerging writer based in Maryland. She was once a high school English teacher, but now she's chasing dreams.