Mourning,
Morning
Ding.
The sound rouses her.
Disoriented, she throws her arm to
the lift, searching for Julie.
The space unoccupied, it takes a
moment to remember.
That
fight.
Julie’s
eye blossoming black.
Renee’s
hand stinging.
Those
Samsonite suitcases they’d registered for.
The
front door slamming.
Now, a text from Vincent.
Are
you feeling alright? Never in bed this
late.
The
grandson of her strange neighbor next door was sweet and obviously interested.
The
message was from seven. It was going on eight.
I
just woke up.
Renee doesn’t know what else to
reply.
Mario’s
thoughtfulness leaves her feeling sticky.
The
phone screen glows bright, though the darkest part of mourning has long
passed.
Her
therapist told her these kinds of days would happen.
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