Mother Box by Sarah Blackman

Many years later, the boy and the girl had grown old. Their seasons were spent like any seasons: a steady progression of rains and passing beauty. The boy kept his job at the butcher's shop and the girl saw the children of the first children she taught come again into her kitchen, the ghosts of their parents shadowing their faces as they lay their wet mittens steaming on her stove. Some mornings, they woke entwined. Some mornings, they woke culpable and hurt. The girl found herself inordinately irritated by the way the boy sat with his legs apart, his belly overlapping his groin. The boy often criticized the way she chewed, mouth open, or her inability to describe the measurable goals of her day at its dawn. In short, they were unique only in their habits, and even in the performance of these, the girl felt a sameness settling over her. It had something to do with the inside of houses, the preponderance of doors. No matter which of her students' households hosted the annual spring thank-you dinner, they all had curtains to pull over the windows and fences snug around their yards.