Bill is a good sleeper; not me. I’m restless.
A sound in the dark sets my heart racing. Slick with sweat, I’m frozen.
They drift into my bedroom like a drape in the breeze. Nude, faceless bodies, with mottled skin, straining over elegant frames.
They lean close to Bill, trace new wrinkles on his face with their fingers. Tug at his ugly mole, making it bigger. Rake their hands through his tousled hair, thinning it.
I shut my eyes and fall into darkness.
Come morning, in the mirror, I wonder: has the skin on my neck always sagged like that?
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