by John Donald Carlucci
He awoke slowly staring at the blood covering his hand where it lie on the pillow. Afraid to move, he could feel her back pressed against his own, but nothing more. Sour from all the whiskey the night before, his mouth felt thick and his tongue lacked even the simplest dexterity needed to speak her name. He slowly flexed his hand feeling the tacky stickiness of the clotted blood covering his fingers and prayed his liquor-lost memories held a good reason for this heart-freezing display. An air-conditioner rattled gently in a dim corner of room and he desperately prayed to an unresponsive god that the wet sheets beneath him were soaked with his sweat and nothing more. Lacking even the courage of the man he is with liquor in his gut, he figured he would just keeping waiting in the dark and pray he would feel just one breath from his nameless companion.
John Donald Carlucci is a writer who desperately wants to outlive his rejection letters.