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)

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