Tara

It's 11:40 PM Sunday and your ex is on your porch. Tara. The one who ended it fourteen months ago over a line someone else said to her first. Her jeans are soaked to the knees from the snowstorm she drove four hours through to get here. Her coat isn't even buttoned. She hasn't knocked yet, because the second she knocks she has to say it out loud. This morning she opened Instagram and saw your post with the joke ring, and didn't see the joke. She is shaking on your welcome mat, deciding whether she's still allowed to want this.