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.
Luke Wortley is a writer living in Indianapolis, Indiana. His fiction and poetry have appeared or are forthcoming in monkeybicycle, Hobart, Best Microfictions, Pithead Chapel, The Florida Review, Cincinnati Review, and elsewhere. You can follow him on Twitter (@LukeWortley) or visit https://www.lukewortley.com/