the pills in this house
should be locked away from me:
it would be easy.
At nine a.m., the morning air is cold and damp, the sky a faint blue-grey. She can feel his breathing on the back of her neck, the slight movement of his chest and shoulders; she can feel the collapse, release, the gentle movements over her hips and back. It reminds her of the mornings before, the nights when she lay awake, the times he just wasn’t there and she’d pretend to feel fingers tracing down her spine, counting each vertebrae, one by one.
One, two, three…
