Marriage

The power lines stretch like a musical score, the perching birds a sonata unplayed. Below, the streets hiss with rain and passing traffic, umbrellas bob like buoys on a lake. You and I walk interlaced, the warmth of our bed still shrouding us, our steps beating a dual rhythm on the drizzle-patterned street. You run a thumb across the ring you have placed on my hand, a circle of commitment, ownership the cynical voice inside me sneers. You smile at me and I wonder if this is how I’m supposed to be feeling, voided and empty and close to tears.

Amanda Hurley, a New Zealander, lives in Germany. She writes short fiction and poetry, and reads for the literary journals Headland and Intrepidus Ink. Find Amanda at www.amandahurley.net.