He snores -- the understated snorts and puffs and pops from deep within his throat percussion to the overture whistling between his chipped front tooth and lazy tongue. The clock keeps him awake, so its luminescent blinks are turned away, casting in cold, reptilian green a pair of eyeglasses, a half-full glass of water, pens, a watch, old paperbacks, their shadows interlaced like scales along the facing wall. She wonders about hours and their fickle flexibility, reaching over him only to see her stretching finger tips push the slick hard-plastic box further away. The shadows shift, their calm activity mocking her as she lies back, thinking of morning, fat and laughing at its own well-rested certainty.
Ali Fischer