They’ve tested my hair. One strand against all the years we’ve looked after each other.
I don’t know what will happen if they find no thread between us?
My lawyer says it’s for the best. He says, ‘what do you think?’
I say, ‘I used to love her once, you know.’
‘That doesn’t matter any more.’
‘I know,’ I say.
My suit makes me feel I’m not quite me. At the chambers’ door a scrubbed-up bear pats me down. ‘Procedure,’ he says. He follows me to the too-big table.
She’s opposite, dressed like she owns the place. The eyes I could have died for once avoid me now.
Call off the goons,’ my guy says.
‘Just a precaution’ says her lawyer, throwing a cheap manila folder on the table next to a jug and water glasses. The door closes behind me.
(this is an edited version of the story Nurture, published on this day, 2010. See about small stories about love)