Hannah Vergult
“Your grandma sounds like a major downer.”
“Yeah.”
“It doesn’t have to be like that.”
“Then how can it be?”
“I’ve already said you could come live with me.”
“We’ve been over this. I’m not that kind of person. I can’t drop my
whole life for you.”
“Marry me then. We can figure it all out later.”
“Isaac . . . ”
“It’s like you don’t want this to work or you’ve already accepted that
it’s over.”
“It’s not like that. I’m trying to be realistic. Neither of us have the
luxury to move. I’m tired of driving six hours every other weekend to
meet you in this gross motel.”
“It’s not that bad. There’s complimentary coffee.”
“The wallpaper is peeling.”
A family of cicadas performed an ugly ballad outside, audible
through the poorly insulated walls.
“You still love me?”
He waited for an answer.
“I think so. You?”
“Of course. Can’t that be enough?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Please don’t cry.”
The motel mini fridge hummed in wild abandon, a desperate
attempt to keep itself running. Lily paused her game of connect the
dots to trace the scar on Isaac’s forearm, the one from when he burnt
himself making them breakfast. She saw something crawling out of the
corner of her eye.
“Cockroach,” she said.
“What?”
“I see another cockroach, it’s by your bag.”
“You want me to kill it for you?”
“No, I already named it, so now there’s an emotional attachment.”
“What’s his name?”
“Walter, Walt for short.”
A silence fell between them.
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