David Fishkind

She forgave them both, that morning as she had each morning since suggesting they not be together, continue to live together until the lease’s fulfillment, but perhaps take some time to focus on themselves as things weren’t really, like, working out. The time then, she thought, should… The thought ended.

She heard the ersatz marimba of her phone’s alarm. She reached for it, swiping across the screen. It ceased. He rolled over.

In a halfway-seated position, taking the pill from its little orange bottle, she drew back the curtain to reveal the fire escape. She turned, lifting her legs, and warmed her feet above the radiator. The muscles of her lower back tensed.

She made her way gently over him, but it was clear that he too was awake, and he watched her body move away toward the bathroom. He felt nothing; this was replaced almost immediately with confusion. Then anger.

He repositioned, arm extended to the floor below, searching for his phone. He deleted two emails and checked Facebook. He refreshed Facebook, and when it was clear that no activity had transpired overnight, he dropped the phone beside him and turned over onto it, reaching for her pillow.