girl in the night
She wakes up in the night, and it’s dark and the man next to her is snoring too loudly, shaking the black air into millions of blurry particles, and so she pushes his shoulder and he rolls away from her, leaving a cold shadow all along her thigh. They are both naked, the man and herself, and the room is chill. She gets out of bed, gropes on the floor for her t-shirt and, finding nothing, wonders how far she flung her clothing last night and whether she should pick up the man’s white shirt and wear that, even though it makes her think of Hollywood movies and all the thin girls who look great in their boyfriends’ shirts, with their slim thighs and smooth knees and American tans. She goes naked into the hallway and down the stairs to the kitchen, where the floor is icy underfoot, turns on the tap and drinks a long fresh wet pint of water, dripping splashes onto her bare chest. Back upstairs and into the bathroom, turning on the low humming light, she washes her hands in the sink, and looks up to see her face in the mirror, but her reflection is not there. In the mirror is the shower curtain and the dim light, but not the girl who goes bump in the night.
