MEANWHILE by Michael Trocchia
With so much time on his hands, he looked out: the moon. It had no family. But it had this way of asking for a companion, someone to see it through the night. What little it took, he thought, to give in. And so, he did. Sleep then was like a new rhythm, a white drum beating softly inside a song. But when he woke the next morning, the moon was gone, just like that—his window open, the scent of dry leaves and exhaust filling the room. What to do now then with all the extra time, this space again in the day? He coughed and looked up, for just then he heard the woman upstairs climbing out of a dream.