It’s winter, raining hard. We are trying to snooze, sweaty mammals huddled close, but a gutter has ruptured on the house next door, releasing a stream straight down thirty feet to a fan of cement five yards from our bed. Stop twisting the covers into knots, he says. Just pretend it’s the freeway at rush hour, you’ll sleep. Somewhat soothed, I close my eyes to an imagined gridlock of fish and naked divers, accompanied by the tinny sound of mandolins, being swept out to sea.
About Maria Porges
based in Oakland, CA, United States