Essay: stephanie vogel

I could have stayed.

I could have been his woman, been taken care of. Safe.

I could have continued to feel empty.

Heavy with boredom and hangovers and sadness.

I could continue return home after work each day,

where he always asked, standing at the back door dropping his briefcase

for me to move later,

What’s for dinner?

I could have pretended more.

I could have banished the angry thoughts that transformed to lonely tears as I tried to sleep.

I could have let them trickle down my face, onto the pillow,

as he turned to me, wanting,

oblivious.

I could have continued on in our awninged house with inherited china and silver cutlery.

I could have stayed.

Done less, seen less,

been less.

I could have

but I didn’t.