by Robert Scotellaro
She put on the new nightgown she'd gotten at Penny's and slipped into bed — felt the one that was left, the satiny material against it — could hear him in the bathroom brushing his teeth. The lifelike silicone breastform with ("natural pink Caucasian nipples") lay out of her bra on the dresser. She wanted to tell him about the moments she'd been having: the sparrow she saw that suddenly landed, half in, half out of a diamond in a chain-link fence; the orange tips of their daughter's birthday candles in the dark, for that instant when she first blew them out; yesterday's spring rain — the way that woman in the park tilted her umbrella as she talked with a friend. She hoped he wouldn't come on to her. He stepped out and stood there for a moment, wiping toothpaste foam from his chest, and when he looked up, she followed his gaze to the dresser, where it lingered. She pulled back the covers and patted his side of the bed — reached for the remote.
Robert Scotellaro's work has appeared or is forthcoming in a variety of magazines and anthologies, including Ghoti, VerbSap, 971 Menu, Boston Literary Magazine, The Laurel Review, Red Rock Review, Northeast Journal, The Vagabond Anthology, Macmillan and Oxford University Press collections, and elsewhere. He is the author of several literary chapbooks and the recipient of Zone 3’s Rainmaker Award. He currently lives in California with his wife and daughter.