Treehouse

a brief encounter by Mary Grace Hammond

It’s been weeks since you caught me on the bathroom floor
soundlessly touching myself, my expression lit

up by the glow of my laptop. I don’t know how
you got the door unlocked, or how bizarre I must

have looked with legs sprawled out and my nose nearly
touching the screen. I guess I can understand how

it hurt your feelings, and why you went through my web
history afterwards, exposing what a true

connoisseur I was and why you hadn’t been touched
in weeks, maybe months. During the fight that ensued

I took off my engagement ring and buried it
in the backyard under my grandmother’s rose bush;

I guess I thought it was a symbolic gesture
or something, only now I’m just pissed that I can’t

find it and pawn it for rent money. But still,
when I’m browsing my favorite online smut,

the screen margins are filled with ads from obscure
jewelry retailers, their diamonds on display at

the most enticing angles, promising pleasure,
urging me to come find the perfect ring.