I fall asleep with the news on. You’re a reporter in a bullet proof vest. I hear shell fire. I wake up. I’m glad you’re upstairs, not there.
He texted her; she texted him back. At dinner, they sat eating in a magnificent desolation, two satellites trading light.
There’s a note on my door. I hurry inside and catch the last of my dreams climbing out a window, wearing my now useless wedding gown.
He swore he wanted her to go, and that gave her strength, and so she hated him for walking beside her window right to the end of the platform.
She didn’t know sign language, so clumsy pantomime would have to substitute. She put her hand over his heart, then her own. He understood!
It was a silly drawing of a giraffe and a penguin she’d drawn for him when she was six. He’d kept it all these years. She burst into tears.