The Empty House

Jade sleeps on the gutted mattress, one leg out from under the army blanket. I count her breaths. Fourteen a minute. She snores a little, the whistle of a kettle left on the stove, and tomorrow morning I could have roasted her for an hour over it.

I have no voice left for jokes.

The safehouse radiator clicks every forty seconds. A leak browns the ceiling above the sink. On the table, her notebook lies open, three pencil lines I have no right to read. I read them. "He doesn't eat anymore. Keeps the mask on even to drink. Ask Malik about gloves."

Gloves. She noticed.

I tried, earlier. While she was rinsing her hair in the basin, I laid two fingers on her shoulder blade, for nothing, just to see. Brick. A construction-site wall under my knuckles. She turned, foam all over her forehead, smiled at me, and I pulled my hand back too fast, as if I were the one burning.

She said "don't worry." She thinks I was embarrassed.

Now I stay in the chair, hands wedged under my thighs. The Incoherence took the skin. It will take the rest, piece after piece, until the Parade has nothing left to march but an empty costume. Tonight nobody is watching. UZUME.AKARI keeps quiet. No spotlight, just a snore and a dripping tap.

I get up to shut it off. My fingers slide across the ceramic without finding it. Second try, I push with my wrist. The water stops.

Jade rolls over and pulls the blanket up to her chin.

I pick up the pencil. Under her three lines I write, in crooked capitals: NOT THE GLOVES. Then I scratch it out until the paper tears. I switch off the lamp and sit on the floor, back against the bed. Close enough to hear her. Far enough to touch nothing.