Sometimes I spin my forget-me-knot ring around and pretend it's a wedding band. I hold my hand out away from me and squint at the tiny silver ring. Then I turn it back around and continue typing. It's probably better we aren't married. I don't think I could live with your gray socks and snoring.
I take the long way to work so I can see the foreign kids on the corner smoking cigarettes and laughing. I imagine being 18 again and wonder why no one ever told me about this place when I was in college. We could have had such a good time together drinking wine and pretending to be smarter than everyone else.
Before eating a salad I cut it into small bits with my knife. This reminds me of how the french believe you shouldn't cut lettuce. Then I think about that night in Paris outside your apartment when I hit you with my pink shoes. The french have a lot of stupid rules.
When I come home from work I often leave my keys in the lock. I always think you'll be there to roll your eyes and remove them. But then I remember the house is empty except for Stella and she doesn't have opposable thumbs.