Where I'm Not

I'm staring at this bed that I've put sheets on and there's a window that lets me look out onto whatever is outside, nothing much to speak of, some dead grass, a parking lot, another building or three on the other side. This is where I'll not sleep tonight before another long day.

“Seriously?” she says, “we're staying here?”

“Think of it as an adventure,” I say.

She's staring at me like she's gonna pop me in the face or at least get the hell out of there. It's crazy sexy, her hair all messed up and what not.

I blink. She's gone. She was never here. It's my mind again, thinking of different times, when we were happy beyond description.

But no, I must describe. It was like an overwhelming wind that swept us both away. It was like the sun and the moon and the stars. It was like everything, because it was everything.

Which was the problem, of course. And now that she is gone, everything is gone.

No sun, no moon, no stars. Only void. And this bed that I've put sheets on near a window that lets me look outside at who cares what.

“Where are you even?” she says, and I see her again.

I shrug my shoulders. “Somewhere in New York, Oneonta I think.”

“Where the hell is that?”

I look around the room and notice chairs stacked on desks. Am I supposed to be here? Is anyone supposed to be here?

“It's where I am,” I say. Her nose is a button. Of all her features, it's the nose I miss the most. I have no idea what that says about either of us.

“And where I'm not,” she says before slipping out the window.