Melissa Wiley

The End of Longing

After my husband left for work this morning, I made another cup of coffee and washed dishes. I wiped soapy hands against jeans before lifting my shirt up to a mirror that we lean against a window ledge in our kitchen. Where glass rests against more glass, I looked into the smaller rectangle and saw fresh evidence of the fact I’ve lost a little weight over the summer. My waist and stomach have shrunken, though my husband hasn’t noticed. While he goes to work in a downtown Chicago office and I work from our apartment, an egg inside my ribs keeps expanding and presses on my diaphragm. Early mornings when I first awaken, I sense the sheen of its unbornness. Falling back asleep, I watch