You aren’t in love. But it’s 10 p.m. on a school night—you still call it that—and you think of her laugh. Sweet as syrup, restrained but not unsurprised. The sound presses into your sternum and stays.

You noticed her fingers last week when they ran through thick curls. She’d asked if you had a hairbrush—a specific one for her hair type. The end of her sentence lifted along with her eyebrows.

In the corner store afterwards: you scour the aisles for the brush she wouldn’t ask twice for. Payment comes from a shared card for an unshared purchase. The transaction stays unnoticed by the man you married too young, too soon. You pocket the brush in your coat, wrapped in a blue plastic bag you’ll later use for the bathroom bin.

*

At home, the television is turned up. You can hear the laugh track from where you lean against the bathroom counter.

It keeps you company. The hairbrush—still wrapped in its plastic bag. You pulled it from your coat pocket as you entered the house. You’re late, he’d said. Steady. Unaccusing. He nodded when you told him the reason. Marking. It makes sense. Everything about your life makes sense, on paper. 

Even now, he doesn’t ask. His voice travels easily: You all right in there?

Just cleaning up, you say. Your voice stays steady. You don’t have to raise it. You never do.

Your reflection watches you in the mirror. The overhead lighting here is unkind—an exposed bulb that catches the lines around your mouth. The door stays open. You stay still.

The rustle of the plastic bag is louder than it should be. It echoes against the tile. You wonder if this sound will travel.

The handle is smooth. Wide. You press your thumb into the bristles—watch for resistance, wait for the give. Her curls. Her fingers disappearing in them. 

You lift it. The brush. It’s heavier than you imagined. You rotate it through your wrist.

To feel the weight.

To understand.

From the living room, the laugh track.

Your bare feet carry you into the hallway. The flicker of a candle wavers against the wall. As you edge towards the living room, the television light illuminates the couch. You know where the floor creaks. You know this the same way you know he’s asleep in front of a sitcom rerun he’s watched dozens of times.

You think of possession. You think of being in love.

Have you ever been?

You stand, steeled. The handle presses into your palm. You circle the two-seater—careful around his socked foot hanging over the edge. Intervals of light from the screen illuminate what you can see of his face: his downturned mouth, his sparse beard. One arm is thrown over his eyes. You know they’re closed.

You think about it.

Pressure.

Place. 

You imagine the motion.

Plural.

You aren’t in love. But you are, you realize, capable of things.