Phobic
She stood in the doorway fully dressed. He was looking at her. I can’t go. Come on let’s go. Locked. Can’t go. Okay, I’ll go alone. He said. Quiet. The door closed. Herself. The old man. Self. Frozen. Plums, peach pies and baking. Together. Painting, anniversaries. All that he did, didn’t. Unlock the door. My door. Your brain. Breathe. You’ll see someone else. Fists don’t breathe. Your purple sweater, he likes purple, to see it. Your painting. His painting. The old man. C’mon. They don’t bite. No. I’ll stay and shoot myself in the foot.