He loved me the way an orange peeled in the next room permeates the universe for a night. In the morning I drove back from Chicago still stinging, trying to scan ditches for deer in the dark, the glint off every mile marker mimicking the eyeshine of a shaking creature ready to leap. I drove as he made his way back to her, buying an airport coffee, texting her a heart. Under his fingernails, curled rakes of skin—the orange’s, mine.
Elle Shim studied theatre as an undergraduate in Wisconsin and completed her MFA in poetry from the University of New Hampshire in 2012. She is a poet, teacher, and comic artist currently living in California. Her work has appeared in Poor Yorick Journal, Cider Press Review, The Cortland Review, and elsewhere. If you like, you can follow her @Sundog_Hooray on Twitter.