Note on a Fridge
Photograph by Carly Lewis
You moved my shoes.
You moved my shoes again and I couldn’t find them.
I looked for hours that felt like days.
They weren’t in the closet by the door. The front door.
I didn’t see them on the stairwell, up or down (I checked both).
Not on the bedroom floor. Not under the desk in the den.
(These are floors I used to know. We used to know, together.) My shoes weren’t there.
I tried the kitchen, opened cupboards I didn’t know existed.
(You always complain that I don’t spend enough time in there. Well, Laura, now I have.)
I even checked the bathrooms. Our bathrooms. (And don’t worry, the seat was down in all of them.)
I searched the whole goddamn house, Laura. Nothing. They were my only pair of shoes,
and I liked them.
(You’ve bought me shoes before, I know. Plenty. But none I want to wear.)
It wasn’t until I opened the door to see if it was warm enough for sandals that I found them.
You moved them onto the front porch, out in what I discovered to be the cold.
And it was in that moment that I realized, you’ve been moving my shoes since the day we met.
You’ve moved my shoes so many times, I don’t even recognize them.
They’re never okay where they are, and you just can’t leave them alone.
Well, this is the last time, Laura.
I’ve made a note of it in handwriting you can’t read.
You moved my shoes, and I don’t love you anymore.