#wontbe

This probably doesn’t exist anymore, as it never has, as it never will. There is no desire to touch her, nor do I observe her in her sleep. I am lying sideways. She is half asleep, half awake. We are together with a ravine of white between us. She is happy enough. There is the smell of wet wood in the house. 

Today she came home from work still sipping stale coffee. 

“I’m tired,” she began, but I was reading from a paper someone had handed to me on the street. An artists collage was being exhibited. She was still speaking when I looked up. 

“Do you want to cook tonight, or should I?”

I pointed to the flyer, to which she nodded, as if to say “Yes, that, whatever it is, is our plan,” if only to confirm we will have a plan. As if to say, the plan is all we need, though the details don’t matter.

She slunk past me into the shadows of the hallway. I hadn’t turned the lights on, not yet, though the leafy green of outside had coated our walls, had rendered their whiteness slippery and dark.

He leaned back on the chair, patiently tapping at his watch. The light on his mask kept flickering, broadcasting boredom.

"Could you not do that here? You're being distracting." ,Hendricks said before he looked back once then continued typing at his desk.

He could feel his blood boiling, that urge for something, anything, to happen simply for the sake of entropy. His mask's light began illuminating until it reached a blinding brightness. He mashed his fingers together and leaned back farther in the chair. "Yo, I'm out." He called to Hendricks.

"Don't break anything on the way out."