She kept a list on the
back of a receipt. Not
of what she had done,
but of what she had
almost done.
Walked out, didn't.
Spoke up, didn't.
Left, didn't.
Each day the list grew
heavier, even though she
never added anything new
to it. The weight, she
began to understand, was
not in the almosts
themselves, but in the
empty space she kept
clearing for them.
One morning she folded
the receipt in half.
Then in half again. Then
again. She slid it
between the pages of a
book she no longer read,
and for the first time
in weeks the kitchen was
just a kitchen.
Not smaller. Not
lighter. Just hers
again, without the
rehearsal playing
underneath it.