Adrienne Young

“I don’t belong to you.”

“Yes, you do.” He pulled the hair back out of my face so he could look at me. “Like I belong to you.”

Put me to sleep with the fiddle at sunset, she’d said, because she’d known she was dying. We all did

For no other reason than it was habit, I reached into the letter box,
tucking the little stack of envelopes under my arm. With a pang of guilt, I realized it was one of those mundane things that went on, even when your world stopped spinning. Edison’s Cafe still closed at 8 p.m., the morning glories still bloomed at dawn, and the mail was still delivered every day but Sunday.