The jar fought me. Sweaty hands, breath held, the sharp vinegar of our argument still lingering in the kitchen air. I twisted until my wrist ached, until all of the little things I was angry about blurred and ran together. She watched from the doorway, unspeaking, before stepping forward. Her palm brushed mine, cool and sure. One turn, a quiet pop, like a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. She placed it on the counter—a splintered kind of mercy. We didn’t speak. I hated that she was right again. And still, I could feel myself starting to give.
Sarah Chin is a poetry, humor, and fiction writer with a day job in politics. She lives in Chicago, Illinois and can be found at sarahchin.net.