I check the weather forecast every four hours. There is nothing I can do from 2681.5 miles away. But I check and check and watch the weatherman wave his hand across red band that crosses over my home in real-time news, over and over. I look up recipes for Chicken Florentine and take my rings on and off and pick at my cuticles and bite my nails and dread work tomorrow and make phone calls and I can’t talk to you. I take something that will make me tired and it does and I rest on the couch and imagine skies clearing.
I drink yellow Gatorade from a purple straw and set up camp in bed. I have been here for twelve hours, but who’s counting. It’s been such a long time since anything made sense, and the email about a potential teaching job seems like a mirage amidst the hot flashes and fever dreams of last night. Perhaps it is a sliver of God. I continue work on my short stories, defining an empty chapter with no strands to hold onto. I wait for an appetite to return.