The Boy

He slipped in the front door like the mild December air, a silent rebellion.  We settled on the low, blue couch in the den.  My parents pretended to be busy.

He had ended it over the phone ten days before, with no real explanation.  My young heart had given out.  Plus, he’d stolen Christmas.

We stared at our hands not touching while the tv buzzed in the background.  He had no words left; I had words on lock down.

So we made up new ones.

“I should have asked you to marry me a long time ago,” he lied.

“I would have said No,” I lied back.

Later, I learned he only came that night because my mom had called.  He was her One That Got Away.

Turns out you can build an Ebenezer out of bullets dodged.

*Joining Amber C. Haines at in her new study, Concrete Abstractions.


8 thoughts on “The Boy

  1. I love how much you say in so few words here. And how I related to that making up of new words. Lying to each other because the truth has been said, and we can’t explain what is real. Ebenezers out of bullets dodged — yes! Thank you.

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