Thursday May 19, 2016
Overheard at Kafka’s
The candle’s burning low and you’re out on the porch howling at the moon. I want to “shhh” you, but then I remember the shapes that we made in the bed last night and how the duvet is still shaped like a dream dragon.
“I’m sorry for what I said when I hadn’t eaten yet,” I bark, over the sound of the chainsaw. You don’t hear me. I let the screen door slam behind me. Ten minutes later you come inside for a glass of water. I don’t repeat myself.