by Margaret Iuni
They say never go to bed angry, but we were never the type to follow advice. When I rolled over and saw your half of the bed empty, though, I thought for sure we’d gotten this one wrong. The open window was taking a beating from the rainstorm we’d been promised days earlier but ignored, and the pool of water forming on the floor was evidence enough that you were gone. My head was in my hands when you burst in, towel in hand. The words “I’m sorry” poured out of our mouths and we sank to the floor in each other’s arms. It was the kind of miracle that almost made me want to go to church that Sunday morning.
