I can hear the rain against the
window. Light pours in from distant street lamps. I start to play a game in my
head. I’m not creative, so it’s always the same game. Yet, like any story told
twice, the details begin to change.
I imagine you. Just you and I, separated by glass in a white room, staring at
each other as if this was the first time we’d ever met. Maybe it is. It’s
different every time. Usually, I’m sitting in a chair. Sometimes we just sit
there for what seems like hours, simply staring at each other. Some nights
we’re trying to talk through the glass but no words will come out of my mouth;
my Adam’s apple swells up until I can barely breathe. Right before I imminently
pass out from deprivation of oxygen, I’ll hear the disdain in your voice one
last time as you breathe out my name.