Jeanann Verlee

I am 41. Standing at the Formica counter of a roach-friendly Queens apartment five lifetimes ago, I crumble gorgonzola over flatbread dough, then stud it with gems of diced dried apricot and fresh thyme—ready for the oven. The man I chose to wed is miles away in the next room weighing down the couch as he wrestles his way through another hangover, offering some caustic rebuke of my failures. Today I failed to provide the right sports drink, so I’m fucking stupid and goddamn selfish. Wordless, I return to the grocery, buy two six-packs of whatever he prefers. Something pink,…