Oblivion
I can hear him.
I can hear him all the time, and I think it would drive me insane if I didn’t miss him so much.
I can hear him when I’m grocery shopping on Thursday in the middle of the afternoon, picking up fresh-cut ham despite it being ridiculously overpriced and milk that I know will spoil too soon. I can hear the affectionate smile in his voice as he whispers in my ear, applauding my choice in deli meat (honey ham, cut an inch less than sandwich thin). I tell myself that that’s how I like it, that he hasn’t seeped so far into my mind that I can longer make seemingly simple decisions like how thick my ham should be cut without wondering: how would he like it? I tell myself this because the alternative is devastating; I love him, but I love myself even more. Perhaps I am selfish, but I want nothing more than to believe I can stay wholly immune to his psyche, to be utterly uninfluenced by him even as I watch him absorb pieces of my own identity. I feel his breath against my ear as he asks me—slyly, softly, a mere murmur the passersby miss—if I want to play a game.