In the chair by the window, you sit and smoke your pipe, a mild cherry and twig aroma hovers above the cedar floorboards. Ten minutes ago you threw a shoe across the room, at Darlene. You argued about the electricity bill. For about fifteen seconds (what seemed like minutes) you ignored her voice, like the scraping of a mouse’s feet running behind the walls, until the clawing burrowed through to you. And you, to quiet the incessantness of it, threw your shoe. It slammed the wall, hard, like squashing a fly with a slap. You surprised yourself with the violence of the act, and then there was the look that signified the end.

You sit in your chair and force yourself to walk occasionally, around the block, or down to the park, where the leaves are still green for another month, and the freighters haul whatever, up and down the river. Your only friend is a pair of pants that she bought for you, and you are surprised at how often you still think about her.

One day, you decide to go for a walk, and three times as you reach the street corner you consider if suicide by car collision would be suiting. And you ask yourself questions about the physics of the act: whether the car might stop before hitting you, and how hard, anyway, would you need to be hit? Surely, a bus would do the job. But then does it really pay to ruin a bus-driver’s day like that?

Sandra snores, but she likes to cook you breakfast. She rises early from bed, without an alarm, and you wake to the smell of bacon, and fruit-filled pancakes.
One night in bed, she stares up at the ceiling, sifting through a memory, replaying it, cursing herself for not acting differently. “My ex-husband used to hit me.” She says. “I think that’s my intimacy problem—where it comes from.” She is nervous telling you this. “I won’t stand for it."
“I am sorry,” you tell her. But all you want to do is sleep. The blankets are warm, and your eyelids fit so right, lain upon one another, kissing, and peaceful.