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)
small stories about love 