Potiphar’s Wife

High summer with your garden-ripe tomatoes, your freckles, your spent teabags and ice condensating on glass, how I miss him! Only you, only you can understand, who were there with me for the early morning coffee on the porch when the heat was already drawing the dew from the grass and the splinter in my forearm was the least of my woes– the least of my joys.
When he left me here, with his garment in my hand, what choice did I have but to make him pay?

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