We Won’t Be Hungry

The bed was perfect, the sheets tucked exactingly into the navy blue bed frame. He sits at the desk with a ziplock bag of grass and a neat folded paper. Why is the door locking? And when we all sit together, draped over the bed in our gray shifts and pale sweaters, blowing wind at the corners of the hotel room, our lungs expand and collapse and when someone uses the bathroom we can all hear them piss into that gorgeous white industrial toilet. We clutch our feet together. We take turns at the bedside table and clean up neat little expensive rows, our fingers tracing over the invisible dust of whoever was in this room last. We won’t be hungry. Tender noise in the window. The traffic lights in Tribeca turn red like a parade or a funeral procession. There is someone in the bathroom. There is someone at the door. Why is the door locking? Our ribcages rise and fall as we inhale, exhale, laying on the bed with our warm hands outstretched. Bring us water when you’re done. Clean up the remains of the desk, of the squat bedside table when you’re through. Jaws clenched, chins up, eyes closed. Don’t mess up the perfect sheets and whatever happens don’t lock the door.


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