He’s aware of the two women inhabiting the same space, breathing the same air.

What if if molecules of air could be imprinted with memories?

His photographer’s eye notes a swirl of dark against the light coffee of the model’s back, a shadow cast by by the wrought iron chair.

Her shoulder blades, the stub of angel wings, soon to grow, or recently lost.

She is in high contrast, a Mapplethorpe Cala Lily.

His wife is wearing a floral skirt, she’s so soft she’s out of focus, receding into the border.

She tugs at the t-shirt pulling up over her bump, as she bends to deadhead the flowers.

He notices her ankles have thickened while he’s been away.

“There’s sugar if you want it, Josie.”

“No thanks, I don’t do sugar”

“I didn’t think you would”, says the wife,

snapping a pelargonium at the neck.

Photo: Echogrid, Unsplash

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