snippet
Maybe this will get a drawing, maybe not.
She shifts in her sleep.
The bedroom window faces the street and bars of light are projected onto the ceiling every time a car turns on their corner. Aubrey is lying on the floor at the foot of the bed watching the lights pass overhead. During the long lulls between cars he counts her breaths. Arienette snores. 549 Exhales between the garbage truck and a little red Toyota.
Aubrey tries to mimic her breathing but it is senseless. He doesn’t need to breathe, his lungs -presuming he has lungs, part of him thinks he might be stuffed with cotton or autumn leaves- his lungs are unresponsive. He pushes his chest out and then pulls it back in, a bit of air rushes through his ears, and he snorts in amusement.
She shifts again, this time more forcefully, kicking the comforter part way to the floor. Another car passes, but Aubrey misses the light show, his view obstructed by a sea of flannel. Aubrey embraces this temporary darkness. He lets his mind drift back over the day. This is the closest he ever gets to dreaming.
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