By Emma Duffy-Comparone
He took the good knives from Germany. He put his clothes in Tupperware containers fit for a moose. Into their original boxes went his wingtips. Ruth sat on the arm of the loveseat in her sweatpants, swinging her feet back and forth. She was not going to beg. She did not want to beg.
She begged a little.
“What gives you the right?” she said. “What gives you the fucking right?”
“You’re all closed up,” he said. “All your life you just sit in the back seat. I’m sick of driving.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Do you want to get married or not?” It had been eight years.
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Emma Duffy-Comparone ’s fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in One Story and The Southern Review. She is a recent graduate of Boston University’s MFA program.
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