Cause of waking, a
loose marble embedded by his own weight into just above the knee where the
flesh is pulled thin over the bone, a perfect unseen dark circle become diffuse
by morning, the little bruise to change its colours across the coming days.
Skunk (wincing as
the pain registers): Jesus Christ,
brushing the glass
ball from out the bed and across the room
Skunk: Jesus.
With one hand he
rubs at the tender contact point, with the other his face, aware she is now
awake adjacent.
Skunk (yawning): What
time is it?
She moves aside the
hotel stationery covering the bright red digits of the bedside table clock,
displacing the scatter of coloured wax crayons which roll away, spill softly to
the carpet below.
ache1:
Nearly four.
collecting then her
fallen E.T. doll from off the floor, returning it back between them in the bed.
Skunk: Jesus
Christ, seems like it’s always nearly
four.
