a stray dog paced up and down a back alley one night,
howling at the moon.
5 stories up, a woman blocked out the sound of an incessantly crying child and tilted her head to the sky.
the cheap 1970s light fixture ignited a slow warmth beneath her skin as the frayed red edges of a thin polyester throw tickled the back of her arm.
the dog hollered once more, the child screamed, and the ceiling fan in the hall hummed as if it were about to take flight—it never stopped.
the woman put up her feet and swore she could taste seasalt on the tip of her tongue. closing her eyes, she silently wished that her lover would never come home.
