Scene

Image: Four slivers of light, slicing out your bedroom door, separating it from the surrounding darkness. It is morning.

Image: A lemon, halved, in a plastic baggie. A seed rests in a corner.

Image: A clean, broken coffee mug.

Image: Shards of broken glass, embedded in my running shoes.

Image: A dusty old stereo, long and thin, silver. A tape is in the deck, one side of it old jazz tunes, the other side filled with blues. Played and worn and loved, made with love, from love to love with love.

Image: My friend slips on a small pool of blood in the bathroom. It must be menstrual blood, she thinks.

Image: A long grey limousine with six doors, matching grey leather interior. The overhead cloth is becoming detached in some small patches.

Image: Some sort of chopped salad, an attempt at health. Something with chunks of cold ham and disgusting egg, something with too much dressing on the side, covered in cheddar clippings.

Image: You sneak into bed, your back to your lover. Perhaps you don't even lift up the covers. You will sleep on top of them tonight. You will be cold.

Image: Grandfather's fedora. You've stepped on it.

Image: The pelt on that chair is tearing, and tears more every time someone sits down.

Image: Against the front room window, an open and empty fish tank. It is filled with books, periodicals, newspapers from the previous week.

Image: A cream-colored phone attached to the wall. Its long spiral cord stretches across the floor of the kitchen. Nothing at its end.

Image: Light switches flicked up. Darkness.