At night, I become my mother’s breath, swirling into the air, never to be seen again. That, or I come up short sealing the deal with every man or woman I’ve ever thought about sealing the deal with. That, or I put on my wife’s heels and practice walking down the stairs while everyone is asleep. That, or I tilt the glass to my lips one more time. That, or I walk hand in hand with strangers for as long as they’ll let our fingers interlock. That, or I shrink to the size of an infant’s palm. That, or I watch the rain hit the window, yawning wide. That, or I’m a deer stricken in the middle of a busy road, stupidly eyeing the oncoming traffic, poleaxed. That, or I light a match and let it burn my fingertips for just a moment before screeching and hopping around on the back porch. That, or I sift through all our important paperwork locked in a safe. That, or I ask questions of my sleeping wife that she’ll never be able to answer. That, or I drive out past the county line and lie in the fescue, waiting for something to happen.

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