TARGET

I left him weeks ago. I try to forget. I avoid thinking about him as intently as I avoid getting burnt on a hot stove. I ignore the slight shaking of my hands whenever his name pops up in my email or on my phone. Like when I go by places we commonly went. Or when I walk by the avocados in the grocery store and remember his laughing derision when I didn’t know how to choose ripe ones. Or when shivers shoot down my spine when I pick up a pizza and place it in the back seat, reliving his ire when I’d bring one home with the cheese and toppings shifted more to one side than the other because driving home required more right turns than left. I ignore my staccato pulse a thousand more times over the weeks. I try to relearn. I try to live. I retrain myself to go to the pharmacy without telling him first. To the grocery. To work. I remember I have every right to walk outside in the falling sun, to sit in the grass and the crisp leaves, and I can even lie back if I want to, breathe in brisk ai