She wakes at three and
doesn't know why. The
ceiling is the same white
it has always been, but
tonight it feels like a
question she has forgotten
how to answer.
Her legs move under the
sheets, searching for a
cool spot that never
stays cool long enough.
The fan turns overhead,
lazy and indifferent. She
counts its rotations until
she loses count, which
doesn't take long.
Somewhere in the
apartment, a refrigerator
hums. A car passes. The
world continues without
asking if she is ready.
She lies very still,
pretending she is part of
the quiet. It almost
works.