by Karen Walker
Moonrise as he turns in the driveway. The old Chevy’s headlights scan the bedroom wall, a lunar landscape scarred by everyone who’s rented this shabby place. Down the hallway, the bathroom nightlight is a weak little star. It fades as he closes the door—damn toilet will run on and on—and then reappears as if clouds passed by. The apartment glows blue from the TV for an hour or two before he comes to bed. Sliding in beside me without a kiss, the moon sets as I rise like the sun without a word. It’s our cold celestial dance.
Karen works at something else while wishing she was writing. The boss thinks all her notes are about business. He praises her for her initiative. Karen lives in Ontario Canada.