Stall

I wake up and hear you in the hall and hold my bladder. I'm listening to your routine, I can picture you there by the chair, and I know if I go to the bathroom everything will start up again. Comforter on the floor, sheet half-covering my half-naked body. Stale water, filled with bubbles, waiting to be thrown out. I can't look at the water, it's getting too hard to hold in, I hear you go to the bathroom and it's even worse. You come out and pace; footsteps, pause, footsteps, pause. You're stalling. You're hoping I come out, that we do start up again, that we finish it, that we don't go through another day rotting in our self-imposed righteousness. But we're both too stubborn for our own good, and I'd rather wet the bed than say you're right right now. If I take enough deep breaths maybe my body will forget what it wants to do. If I take enough deep breaths maybe I'll fall back asleep and dream about a better version of us. One of those dreams that you could swear was real. And by the time you get home it won't have mattered who said what.