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Yours, Part III: The Reclamation
Rules, ritual, rebirth — ownership written on skin the first night home
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The hallway light bleeds under the bedroom door. My fingers leave damp crescents on the brass knob. The hinge gives a soft sigh when I push.
She sits propped against the headboard, my old t-shirt slouched off one shoulder. A low lamp throws a warm oval on the quilt, makes her skin look like poured honey. My phone rests like a black coin in her palm. She doesn’t blink.
“Hi, honey,” she says. “Welcome home.”
My throat tightens. The air in here smells like laundry soap and her lotion — citrus and something green. My suit carries a faint ghost of vanilla that isn’t hers. I stop three steps in, shoes on the rug, tie scraping at my neck.
“Take the jacket off,” she says.
