by Pat Moran
In the absence of Leona, the room is awash with the drooping grays of reality. The alarm won't sound today, with its undulating "12:00" "12:00" "12:00" every other second, illuminating the wall for its brief, red moments. Two thoughts spring forth: first, the pillow still smells like her Garnier Fructis shampoo and then, I need to wash the pillow case, bleach it maybe. The people who live upstairs have locked themselves out again, and yell up to the open window letting me know, a touch of desperation coloring their voices perhaps due to the darkening clouds. They are good people, old friends of ours actually. I turn on my side and pretend to fall asleep.
Pat Moran is a writer from Portland, Oregon. He is an editor for Scawy Monstur Quarterly, a journal of questionable repute.