(Today and tomorrow we are pleased to present Shontay Luna. You can call her work a prose poem or a microfiction, any way you think about her writing, it conveys her own POV–the Eds.)

I felt fine, then he called me. He called me every other day.

In my bliss-filled day of not hearing from him, I heard from him.

For every day he didn’t call I knew he’d do it the next day. If I

knew how to set my watch, I could do so by the punctuality of

him trying to invite me to breakfast while I sat peacefully in my

own apartment. Or other offerings of things or excursions as

methods of him trying to win me back. Conveniently bypassing

the elephant sized infidelity in the room. After turning him down

yet again, he switches tactics. Telling me that I shouldn’t be mad

anymore. Which I’m not; I felt fine before the call. But like clockwork,

I cried after talking to him. And I knew he was where I once lived,

near his phone. Smirking. The wound still fresh, the scab not

completely covered. I cried, but I don’t know why. I wasn’t angry

anymore, just tired. My soul compacting itself against me. How does

a soul compact? I don’t know, but mine did. Like an over-torturous

form of shrinking. An unconscious drilling of a matte-colored soul that

once shined. The words and names that tortured me at that residence

no longer having any hold since my exodus. As I consider if now I should

avoid him completely. But he’s their father. Whatever family event they’ll

be – birthdays, holidays, he’ll be there also. At the cost of being able to

see our kids and grands, his presence is a sacrifice I’m willing to tolerate

– for now.

Shontay Luna