Screen

Covering the splotch of ink below the long byline of the article declaring my secrets for all to read, I showed my wife the cover of the manuscript and said, Done at last. Now for editing. She smiled and nodded slowly, not breaking eye contact til I said: Of course, that shall wait. First, we take that vacation.

When I started writing my heart, the girl I later married was my muse. This book was to be a gift for her, bearing her name on the dedication.

Instead, I crossed it out and replaced it with Gertrude, the daughter who left at eighteen and never came back ever since.

Since she was little, we were the best of pals. I read to her, and she mumbled along til she was old enough to entertain herself. We discussed the old novels on the bookshelf, and picked through new authors at the bookstore.

Her mother was an administrator, an art school graduate who knew the right words and ideas. Once she used them with a twinkle in her eye, and now it was all to impress at dinner parties.

Where was the woman who stole my heart?

Gone from our lives soon as she was of age, she left me a note that said: I will save you.

Since then, nothing. My wife pretends we never had a child.