Morgan Fox | 15
Morgan Fox
Remains
Pigeons
On a chill April night—it rained that day, as it rained most days then, more seasonal anomaly than storm pattern, dousing the world in plumes of watery corrosion—electric baseboard hotter than the sun that did not go supernova, fogging the glass panes until the mullions sweat in long splinters, and to the tune of the pigeons fucking in the rafters Rice flung open the window while Sebastian—who’d just come back from the moon—sat at the table with his head cradled in his fists and his spacesuit bunched around his waist, and despite the acidic wind Rice curled up in the only other chair to stare at the man she might have once called her husband had he not died and left her, here, alone—
Bowls
Table setting for one: mat fork plate napkin mug waiting expectant but no dinner simmered on the stove, the range cold and the gas turned off. Dishes stacked lopsided skyscrapers in the sink a foundation of crumbs and water droplets. Empty fruit bowl middle of the table. The remains.
Still without speaking she turned from him, scooped the plate away to replace it in the cupboard, dug through the ceramics and came back with two plastic bowls, which she set on the counter then ducked into the Lazy Susan, tossed two boxes of Instant Mac & Cheez next to the bowls, and shoulders hunched against him mixed the ingredients while depressing