trial_separation tender_square remove your wedding ring and leave it on your beside table. strip the sheets of his scent, his spilled coffee, blood from the wound he never knew he had. lay fresh purple linens down, cotton that hasn’t touched his skin. hang your clothes as though you live here; roll your panties in the dresser drawer, tri-fold your sweaters and pants with care on the shelves, arrange your shoes in the closet. hide your luggage so you won’t be reminded that this is temporary. open the bedroom blinds and let in the light for once. crank the windows wide, even though it’s too humid to let outside air in, do it just because it would bother him if he were here. clear his toiletries from the counters and stash them in a closet. takeover the bedroom, and luxuriate on the window seat for the first time, watching cars speed down the boulevard while you sip coffee slow. talk to yourself out loud. laugh without restraint. shit with the bathroom door ajar. smudge each room he’s circled. buy groceries for one and yellow lilies for yourself. arrange the flowers in a vase that sits atop your dresser so they’ll be the first thing you see when you open your eyes after your first night without him. 220918 ... tender_square play music from your phone to block out your thoughts and fill the silence. dance in the dining room to animal collective, a weird, modern-movement exorcism with lots of leg suspensions and dramatic head rolls. crumple and cry when you sing with avey tare, “i can’t lift you up, my mind’s tired”; touch the double edge of feeling that you’re only what you see sometimes. flee on bicycle to face the aliveness of brushing against f-150’s that could crush you. wait alongside couples for ice cream at the river and hear their stunted conversations of rattling off flavours. sit alone on a park bench witnessing the clouds constellate around the city you first married in. back at home, prepare your skin and teeth for bed. sob when the lights are turned out, imagining he isn’t forty-eight miles away—the two of you are in separate twin beds, in a hotel together, and you’re stretching in the extra space. you can hear the rhythm of his breathing; you can see the soft glow of his laptop. 220919 ... tender_square when lunch with your mother stretches into its second hour, you recognize the worry that wells about texting him to say things are taking longer than you thought, when you suddenly realize he isn't waiting for you at home. 220919 ... tender_square at night, you cry for a few minutes before the sorrow subsides; you don’t know if you feel sorry for him or if you’re pitying yourself. you lay your second pillow vertically beside you, pretending you’re not alone. every settling creak in the house is his movement. your sleep is leaden, back aching by morning, the mattress not yet formed to your shape. you open your eyes at 5:20 and remember the mess of your life. you tap your bedside lamp and see a centipede scurry across the ceiling, and now you’re alert, staring at a problem that is yours to take care of alone. you stretch in the darkness of the dining room, muscles straining under elongation. you write about the symbolism of suicidal thoughts while chewing toast; the part of you that wants death, the part of you ready to be reborn. what needs to decay and die—dishonesty or a fear of letting go? in your tarot shuffle, fortuna tumbles out to tell you there is a brighter side, to be aware of the universe trying to help you. below the crumbling bridge, you walk the open pier alone looking across to a country you don’t belong in, listening to the rattle of rickety metal. you study the way the green river laps the concrete legs rising to sky. there are signs at the end of the pier you can’t read until you’re closer: “no swimming” and “you’re not alone” with the number for a crisis line. and your mind flashes “mistake,” the call of the void sends you scurrying back to land, sheepish and shamed. at a coffee shop, you study a text about transformation that tells you, “symbolically, if we are to release our own butterfly, we too will sacrifice a drop of blood, let the past go and turn to the future.” are you chrysalis or lepidopteran? at the thrift store, you thumb through dresses you don’t need, fingers feeling gold sequins and you find it: a top in the shape of butterfly wings, the blue abdomen in center. it’s the same top you used to have eight years ago, inherited from your grandmother, worn once and donated when you believed it too flashy for who you were trying to become. 220920 ... tender_square you compulsively check your phone for texts, emails, calls, throughout the day. you’ve never gone this long without talking. you receive periphery signals of his living: receipts and order confirmations from the grocery store delivered to your inbox with his name; a link to family photo proofs his step-mom copied you in on, unawares; the group text his aunt sent that you were included on and he responded to. when you go back to him on sunday, will he redouble his efforts to try again or accept you where you are? if you leave, how long can you live in the same quarters? you are stamped with the expiry of a milk bag. 220922 ... tender_square the house is too big. you stick to the main floor, cycling through the kitchen, the dining, the living room, the bathroom, the bedroom. it could be a little apartment all your own, and this gives you pleasure to imagine. you settle into a rhythm of your own without him, playing music out loud and singing along, taking the car whenever and wherever you want. the shadow of anxiety is dissipating. there are no photos of the two of you together on the walls to confront. you try to imagine his face and whether he’ll look changed after seven days. will eyes transmit panic or peace? 220923 ... tender_square your neighbour texted last night, a photo of your husband smiling in firelight and the caption “guess who?” while you were out playing bingo with your best friend, your mom, and your sister. how else could you respond but send a heart reaction? you had lied to your neighbour and told him when you left that it was for family issues; your husband didn’t want you to tell anyone because to say it aloud, to tell it to others makes it real. 220924 ... tender_square “does your husband do housework?” one of the women at your friend's cheese party asks. you shake your head no. that was the consensus around the coffee table, the ladies did most or nearly all of the chores. and none of them griped about it very long, rather it seemed like they accepted this fact as their lot in life, that to confront their partners about it would be to upset the marital “balance.” these women were mothers. these women had multiple pets. you mention, obliquely, that you're trying to get back to canada. “will your husband need to do pr?” they inquired. “well, he can live here for six months without it,” you say. “does he want to move here?” they push. and you shrug, desperate for a topic change. how could you say you were in the city alone, that you were going through a separation at that very moment, with all their eyes upon you? 220925 ... tender_square you pack your bags the night before and it saddens you, to return. you could leave clothes behind in the drawers, the closet, but part of you is resigned to being back there for a time; you had your week away, now you must return to a different kind of reality. you don’t bother opening the blinds and curtains because you’ll only have to close them when you lock up. so you sit in the darkness of a rainy day not knowing what to expect when you cross that border back to him. somehow, you’ve made it through two weeks of agony—telling him and living with the revelations, then spending a week apart. what will the next two weeks of your lives look like when you ask him to stop fighting for you? 220925 ... tender_square "are you sure you're making the right decision?" your mother asks. "how can one ever possibly know that?" you say. maybe it's about not whether a decision is "right," maybe it's about making a decision you can live with. 220925 what's it to you? who go blather from