American Chordata: Magazine of New Writing Issue One, Spring 2015 | Page 35

17 • FI CTION

“That’s fine.”
Ellen walks by surrounded by new friends and she does not look
in my direction. Maurice tries to tag after her, but he slows down
as the rest of the group speeds up.
I think about asking Carson to stay, but I don’t. I don’t even say
good night.
Maurice sticks close to the wall and hugs his elbows over his
chest, as if to make himself smaller. “Maybe I could help you clean
up?”
“That’s okay,” I say. “I’m pretty tired, actually.”
His back looks lonely when he lumbers off, but I am not sorry
to see him go.
After the noise of the party, the room is quieter than ever before.
The floor and windowsills are littered with empty cups and bottles,
and the space echoes like an abandoned wreck. I feel polluted. I
dump the trash into a large plastic bag, but the atmosphere is stained
by new smells and events. I mop the floor and try to wipe everything
away. Mopping makes me tired, but nothing more.
I lie in bed with the lights on, not sure if I will sleep. Our little
room seems larger than ever before, a vast and cold galaxy, and I
shrink smaller than an ant. The air plants glow inside their crystal
balls and I count them over and over.