Crabgrass
This time he was leaving. He’d gone about doing it in his head often enough. He imagined next weekend without her, how he would tend his garden and flop into his hammock with a good book. His spirit, compressed from folding over itself again and again according to her needs, would slowly spread and take root in the bare patches of dirt he carried inside himself. There would be nothing left of her by summer. The harsh words between them would soon be covered in a green so lush that just thinking about it made him kick off his shoes.