A woman sleeps in my bed, a woman I do not know. Her eyes do not open and she does not move; only the rhythm in her chest tells me that she is alive. She wears makeup and unimpressive sleepwear and earrings that would dangle were she upright. She smells good, though it is a scent I cannot place. She has been there for forty-seven days. I tried on several occasions to rouse her. Now I charge grown men large sums of money to sleep next to her, provided they do not touch her under any circumstance. Some men want to nap with her, others bring with them Ambien and sleep the whole night. Some are old men, some are young. I make a lot of money, of course. One man told me that the woman opened her eyes when they were together. I don’t believe him and will not be accepting his business any longer.
Category Archives: Me
Cruel Optimism
There is a sweater that hangs in my closet. It is blue and made of some fancy and delicate material. Sometimes I take it out of the closet–to talk to it or remind myself how much it cost or inspect it for abnormalities or hold it up to my face or rub it between my fingers. But I do not put it on. Were I to put it on, I fear I would not be able to take it off without destroying it. So it hangs there, lonely and afraid, stretching slowly toward the ground.