Yellow

“I wish you’d quit smoking so much. Seems like you’ve been needing it.”

 

“I have.”

 

“Wanna talk about it?”

 

“No.”

 

“Ok.”

 

⸻

 

The rain patters the roof. She rests her head on his shoulder. 

 

⸻

 

“You see the scissors anywhere?”

 

“Atop the fridge.”

 

“Can’t see it. Any place else they could be?”

 

He grunts. A moment passes.

 

“Never mind. I’ll just look around.”

 

⸻

 

“Let’s go in there,” she says, tugging his hand gently. 

 

His other hand in his pocket. A smirk. He follows. 

 

“This one,” she says, holding out the fabric. 

 

She takes the yellow dress off its hanger and holds it up to her body, letting the frills sway side to side. 

 

She smiles at him. “What do you think?”

 

“It’s nice.”

 

“I’ll take that as ‘you should buy it, it brings out your eyes’.”

 

“Hmm. Never said that.”

 

“So it doesn’t bring out my eyes?”

 

He winces. “Not sure. Your eyes are brown.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

⸻

 

She twirls in front of their bedroom mirror, smoothing the fabric over her hips.

 

The yellow is soft. Sunny. Too bright for a grey day like this. 

 

He sits on the bed, scrolling. Glances up, then back down.

 

She hesitates. “Well?”

 

“Looks fine.”

 

After a long pause, she takes the dress off slowly, hangs it back up. The frills sway in silence.

 

⸻

 

Rain blurs the window. A car passes with a splash.

 

She’s curled in his hoodie on the back steps, knees tucked up, cigarette shaky between her fingers.

 

Her first ever drag makes her cough. She does it anyway.

 

The silence out here is louder than inside. She wonders if this is why he does it— 

the smoke, the silence, the way it makes you disappear.

 

She watches the smoke curl, then flicks ash into an old coffee mug.

 

His cigarette pack sits beside her. Half empty. He never offered one. She never asked. 

 

⸻

 

The dryer buzzes.

 

She pulls out warm towels. Something slips out— 

a photo.

 

A little girl, around four. Big brown eyes. Tooth-gap grin.

 

In the background: a woman’s lap. Long painted nails. A gold ring. Red lipstick caught on a smile.

 

She flips it over.

Lena & Marlie – June.

 

Her breath catches. Marlie.

 

She’s heard that name once—maybe in sleep, half-muttered. Or a pocket-dial years ago. A voice saying, “Hey. Marlie wants to say hi!”

 

Then—click.

 

Her eyes flick toward the hallway.

Quiet as a held breath.

 

She folds the towels anyway.

 

Slower now. Careful.

 

Like touching something fragile.

 

⸻

 

They eat quietly. Forks scraping. The TV glows, sound low. Neither one watches it. Background noise. 

 

She pours wine. Offers him some. He shakes his head.

 

“Big day tomorrow?” she asks.

 

“Nah.”

 

She nods like she understands.

 

⸻

 

He’s in the shower. His phone buzzes. 

 

She doesn’t mean to look. But she does.

 

Voicemail from “Lena.” Two missed calls.

 

She taps play. Hears the tremble in Lena’s voice.

 

“You don’t have to come. Just… I thought you should know. The service is at noon.”

 

Silence after the beep. Long and aching.

 

⸻

 

He steps out of the bathroom, towel around his waist.

 

She’s sitting on the bed, the photo face down on her thigh. She doesn’t look at him.

 

The moment stretches, strains. Then: “You never said goodbye.”

 

He freezes. Swallows. Softly, his voice breaking, he says, “Didn’t know how.”

 

She nods once, like she expected that. Like she’s heard it before, in a hundred other silences.

 

She sets the photo on the dresser and walks past him.

 

⸻

 

She lies on her side of the bed, curled toward the wall.

 

The yellow dress is draped over the chair. She didn’t return it.

 

He sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face.

 

After another quiet moment, eyes still closed, she says, “I’ll quit if you do.”

 

He doesn’t respond. 

 

⸻

 

Morning light spills into the kitchen. 

 

She finds the scissors behind the blender. Snips the tag off the dress. Slips it on. Her motions are slow, mechanical.

 

He leans in the doorway with his coffee. Watchful.

 

“It does bring out your eyes,” he says, voice soft.

 

She walks to the door. Opens it.

 

“I know.”

 

The door clicks shut behind her.

 

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