Fugue # 31

She talks and talks, to herself or to the sun that falls through the open window, and tumbles onto the bed over her left arm, bare breasts, her face. Her legs are spread, a sheet pulled between them, and uncovered. Her chin turns away from the sun, into shade, toward me.

"...and I guess..."

Disappointment, fatigue, and which came first. She talks, we talk, she talks more, words like sand blowing from an open hand. Missed chances, last chances, and now this afternoon in her bedroom.

She says something like, "I was supposed to have a script." And, "Everything was planned - didn’t you think? I did, and then...you weren’t there. I was supposed to hear cues - when to laugh, when to cry, when to be myself, and when to act. But things got so weird, and I didn’t know what to do, and time - everything was planned, but then everything started moving so fast."

And "I was pregnant, I was 20. There he was, and where were you?" She stops, waits, and gets up from the bed.