Pristine

There was a time when we were pristine. You hadn't touched me -- only wanted to -- and I had never said an unkind word.

I stir the leaves in my tea, staring fiercely at the pale brown liquid, imagining your eyes. The steam wafts slowly with the breeze, floating lazily over to the other side of the table, where you are competently ignoring me. I pretend it doesn't hurt, but I've put on my yellow dress, the one you used to like so much. It pinches under my arms now, so yes, it does hurt. I wore it for you, because you used to like it so much. Today you don't even notice.