where rooftops blend blue

My husband and I tell people about how we usually have vodka at nine and laugh to each other regarding PM assumptions. We live in a world parallel to many. Many of my own lives anyway. He’s better at fitting all of his into one theme.

I tend to be so scattered.

I work in a sixty floor building in lower Manhattan where rooftops blend blue in stacks of upward extending windowed wonders. I wear nylons on eighty degree days with skirts that are never too short and heels that are never too high. I never wear slacks.

My husband adores me in dresses. He picks out my outfits, two or three days a week. Sometimes I surprise him. We both appreciate that for different reasons.

My husband has gravestones tattooed on his left calve, but he never wants to speak about death. He says I speak about it too much.

My husband is nothing like you.

You hold a steady job and pay your bills on time. You run marathons and send thank you cards.

I keep my nails painted to hide the dirt underneath them. Most people assume it’s a manicure, like I’m the type of person who could stomach paying someone to paint my nails.

My husband has hands double the size of mine. When he wraps fingers around my upper arm, patterns of purple form so I don’t forget the grip in his absence. Not like how you forgot me.

You probably won’t even read this.

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