Things We Say We Want

She sits on the edge of the bed, bare feet on the floor. Frosted glass windows soften the barbs of late-morning light.

She pulls her shirt on. The tag at the collar scratches her throat.

She turns to him.

"I want you to know, I was drunk last night. My roommate moved out last month, and I've been living alone." She combs her hair back with her fingers. "I've been living alone, that's all."

He rolls over, looks at her.

"Who are you?" he asks, his cloudy eyes half open.

Something seems to move inside her, but she holds it all in place.

"Perfect," she says, in a voice that's flat enough to fool them both.