David Fishkind

He awoke as she climbed over him, to her side and the heater. When he awoke again it was not to her alarm, but the sound of a plane passing overhead. The pot was on the stove. Outside, he heard soft knocking on the fire escape.

His eyes looked drooped in the bathroom mirror, the pupils off center. He blinked. It was difficult to swallow. He could hear her suppress a cough into the elbow of her sleeve, the clattering of a spoon in the pot.

―Good morning.



―How are you feeling.

―I’m alright. How are you?


―You slept well?

―Hm. A residue remained on his fingertips, forcing the bottle of maple syrup back into the fridge door. He dropped a handful of frozen blueberries in the oatmeal. She looked into her laptop. ―Do you feel sick at all?

―Why? No, not really. My throat had a tickle in it yesterday morning, but I didn’t think about it. Why?

―No reason.

―You’re feeling sick?

―I don’t know. I’m okay.

Noise came from the laptop, ―There is no better place in the world to do business than the United States of America. Think about it. Globalization and technology means you can go just about anywhere. But there are a whole lot of reasons you ought to come…

She closed it, put her dish in the sink beside him, downing orange juice. He refilled it halfway with water, dissolving the remaining pulp.