Eloise — My Man & Me | [Inspired Fiction] The Burn Mark on the Vinyl Tablecloth

Sound & Sentiment • Volume I

The Burn Mark
on the Vinyl Tablecloth

My Man & Me

Performed by Eloise

APRIL 2026 3:42 RUNTIME

The bathroom door lock in this apartment doesn’t catch unless you pull the handle slightly upward. He operates on a similar mechanism. When we sit at the kitchen table, peeling the bruised spots off our apples, he tells me quite plainly that there is a ghost named Amy taking up the largest room in his chest. I don't cry or throw the paring knife. I just nod, pressing my thumbnail into the soft flesh of the fruit. When you take the second-best chair in someone’s life, the cushion is usually worn in the shape of someone else. But you sit down anyway, and simply figure out how to rest against the hard wood.

"We are elbow to elbow in a narrow kitchen, simply letting today turn into tomorrow."

We bicker over the wet towels left on the bathroom tiles and the harsh way I scrape the bottom of the frying pan with a metal spatula. I know I am not a delicate presence. I leave my things everywhere, I talk over the television, and sometimes I just get on his nerves for no good reason. Yet, when the argument peaks, he doesn't walk out the door. He simply sighs, takes the spatula from my hand, and turns on the sink faucet.

Friends ask why I stay. I never know how to explain the sheer gravity of his winter coat thrown over the back of the dining chair, or the rhythm of his breathing when he finally falls asleep facing the wall. But with him, there is nothing to ruin. It is just unwashed coffee mugs, heavy footsteps, and the familiar metallic click of a plastic lighter.

We sit under the low hum of the exhaust fan, the only sound filling the room at night. He cracks open a beer, sliding it across the table toward me. I press the cold can to my bottom lip. We don't talk about the morning, and we don't bring up Amy.

He exhales a long stream of smoke that briefly obscures his face, and through the haze, he flashes a small smile. I reach out, letting my index finger trace the burn mark on the vinyl tablecloth, next to where his hand rests.

Leaving the Porch Light On

I imagine us a few years down the line, still inhabiting a space with walls so thin we can hear the neighbor’s television. The ghost of Amy will have settled into the baseboards, becoming just another draft we've learned to ignore.

He will probably still lose his keys in his coat pockets, and I will still complain about the hallway light flickering. But on a random Tuesday night, when the winter wind rattles the window frames, he will blindly reach out in the dark, his knuckles brushing against my wrist.

An Umbrella Left on the Subway

Olivia Dean & Leon Bridges The Hardest Part
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"The moment you realize the pull in your stomach is gone, and the floor doesn't open up when you admit it."

Thee Sacred Souls Can I Call You Rose?
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"He says her name like he's handling something he might break, and she lets him."

Eloise Subside

"The second beer is already open before either of them decides to stay."

Bruno Major Nothing

"Two people who have stopped performing for each other, finally."

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