David Fishkind

When she returned, he seemed to have fallen back asleep, and she, trying not to upset this condition, made her way back into bed, on his side. He, facing the window, turned once more, and looked at her, curling his face into something that looked a bit like a cinnamon roll, but that she understood was meant to convey hostility. ―What time is it?

―Like seven-twenty, you can go back to sleep.


She watched a tree’s outline through the curtain, wavering. A clang sound came at the fire escape. She closed her eyes.

―I can’t do it.

―I’m sorry.

―Your alarm is…

―I’m sorry. She swallowed a third time, coarse and unpleasant, resisting the desire to clear her throat.

The mattress groaned. She heard him close the bathroom door.