My Deer

You check the letterbox again. It's as empty as it was this morning before you went to work.

You wonder what the invitation will look like. Will it be what she wants; a beige, expensive affair just like she dresses? Or at least the way you saw her dressed that time in the restaurant when you ate alone to remember all the times you and him ate there. They walked in with intertwined arms as if arboreal and her hair shone, her tailored suit the colour of a deer.

You shrunk in the seat and watched because while you wished you weren't there, you were also glad to be because at least then you knew what he'd left you for.

Or, will the invitation be like him? Will it be white text on black, a font that nobody has heard of but knows when they see it that it's him? Will it be embossed, so his name and hers stand out like blisters?

'We cordially invite you', it might say. Or, 'We request the pleasure of your company'. You know that it doesn't really matter how he asks you, only that he does.

11 years you said to him when he told you about her. 'It's been 11 years.' He said he was sorry and shrugged off that time as if it was paper on a bench. 'We nearly had a child', you said. You didn't know how to respond when he told you that nearly wasn't enough.

''Course you’ll be invited', he said when you called to say congratulations. 'We’re still friends aren’t we?' he stated in a way that wasn’t really a question. When you hung up, you thought of all the times you wanted him to ask you to be his wife. You thought about it so much that when you woke up you believed it had actually happened.

My Deer

You close the letter box and walk up the stairs. As you climb you wonder when the carpet was fitted; grey as a mushroom, lining the floor of a forest made for a deer.