Sex for Dummies.
He appears to favor this book when your mother-in-law is visiting, when the creepy Russian superintendent stops by to spray for bugs, or when you’re eating a frozen waffle with your hands while your husband binge watches “The Flash.”
Your journal from your college poetry class.
He helpfully leaves this item open upon the sofa, so that everyone may enjoy your earliest writing endeavors, such as your poem entitled, “Alone in the Soul Tavern.”
A red, sequined mini-skirt bought on sale from H&M two years ago, tag still attached.
Your son shakes the sparkles in the light. Your husband asks if it is for Halloween. You turn up Taylor Swift and leave the room.
Smiling photos of friends with whom you’v had a major falling out.
Where did he even find that picture of fucking Allison? You thought you’d burned them all.
The oversized tub of Curel you planned to carefully massage into your dry heels at bedtime.
He sometimes attempts to open it and eat “the icing,” and you must quickly clack your cloven hooves over and stop him.
His baby book.
Which currently contains: a single ultrasound photo, a lock of his hair, and the candle from when he turned three. You’re welcome, son.
Your tangled jogging headphones.
You explain that no, that isn’t a stethoscope. But when Mommy starts jogging again, the EMT who resuscitates her will have a stethoscope he can see.
A lace thong that reads “Bride!” on the ass in tiny rhinestones.
And you’ve been married for six years.