Gray
“We jump right back into bed, we don’t skip a beat. We make loud love while the sun rises on Chicago; we wake up Her roommate with the noise. When we’re done, she falls asleep with Her body wrapped around me, and I listen to Her breathing, rhythmic and shallow. I feel Her body go still around mine. I let my eyes drift around the room: our clothes, tangled on the floor like the skins of ghosts; Her books, stacked on the desk—Cognitive Psychiatry, Blackwater by Kerstin Ekman (“one of Sweden’s most prominent novelists”), The Collected Works of Oscar Wilde, bound in bright blue—proof of a life that continues on without me; an open pack of Marlboros, an overflowing ashtray, evidence of Her growing imperfections. The radiator hums away in the corner, and the midmorning light spills in around the curtain, casting the walls in a dull, white hue. Tibetan prayer flags hang from the light on the ceiling, fluttering slightly in the heat. It’s like a photograph of a crime scene . . .
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