The Wife, the Whiskey, and What Burns

The wife, the whiskey, & what burns

she’s in the kitchen
stacking dishes like quiet prayers,
the tv mumbling baseball ghosts
from the living room.

she hums some old song
her mother taught her,
moves like she’s done this
ten-thousand times,
the kind of woman
who washes your shirts
and your sins
without ever saying the word forgive.

she believes in me
like it’s a religion.
pays the bills on time,
knows which pill bottle
I’m supposed to open in the morning,
asks
how was your day?
even when it’s always the same
tired train wreck of an answer.

and then there’s the other one.

she lives two bus rides
and three bad decisions away,
in an apartment that smells
like cheap perfume
and the last cigarette in the pack.

she laughs too loud in bars,
doesn’t care who’s watching,
leans into me
like trouble wearing red lipstick
and yesterday’s regrets.

everyone knows her name
for the wrong reasons,
bartenders, bouncers,
that one cop who can’t be bothered
to write the report anymore.

she calls me saint
like a dirty joke,
says I’m better than the rest
while she’s burning
every bridge she never built.

with her
I’m not a husband,
not a taxpayer,
not the guy who fixes the sink
and forgets the anniversary.

with her
I’m just a man
made of bad choices and warm hands,
a body that still remembers
how to want something
without checking if it’s on sale.

with my wife
I’m the man I promised to be.
steady.
mostly sober.
a little dull around the edges
but still there
when the dog needs walking at 6 a.m.
and the rent check
needs a signature.

with the mistress
I’m the man I swore
I’d never turn into,
the one my father warned me about
between hangovers and alimony,
the guy who looks in the mirror
and sees two faces
and trusts neither.

some nights
I sit at the corner of the bar
between them both,
one on each shoulder
like mismatched angels.

the wife is the glass of water
waiting on the nightstand,
clear, dependable,
keeps you alive.

the mistress is the shot of whiskey
you know damn well you don’t need,
burning going down,
telling you
you’re still wild,
still young enough
to wreck something worth saving.

my phone buzzes.

wife: don’t be late, I made your favorite.
mistress: come over, I am making the sidecars that you like.

two sentences,
same language,
different verdicts.

I picture my wife
folding my t-shirts,
leaving the worn ones on top
because she knows
I hate the stiff new ones.

I picture the mistress
sitting cross-legged on the floor,
ashtray overflowing,
record player skipping,
laughing at a joke
I haven’t even told yet.

the truth is
they’re both good
and they’re both poison.

one will kill me slow...
a long, soft drowning
in warm laundry and shared bank accounts,
in birthdays remembered
and arguments about curtains.

the other will kill me fast...
a car crash of motel sheets,
missed paychecks,
neighbors whispering,
my name turning sour
in the mouths of my own kids.

I drain my beer
and stare at the door,
like it’s going to open
and choose for me.

the bartender wipes the counter
like he’s seen this
a hundred times,
men bleeding out
without a drop of blood.

you think there’s a moment
where you finally decide...
left or right,
home or hell.

but there isn’t.

there’s just you
and your stupid heart
taking tiny steps
toward one
and away from the other
every day,
every text,
every little lie
you practice
on the cab ride home.

tonight
I pay my tab,
walk out into the cold,
stand at the corner
where the bus turns both ways.

my phone buzzes again.

I don’t look.

I light a cigarette
with shaking hands,
and for a second
the smoke goes up
between two streets,

two doors,
two lives,

and I stand in the middle...
not a husband,
not a lover,
just a man
who wants to be good
and keeps reaching
for what burns.