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It's just before dawn when the rain starts and she stirs next to me. I haven't been sleeping, but the last handful of hours seemed to have slipped by without notice.
I don't know her name, I don't remember what her face looks like, but she smells like cerveza and coconut, and I like that. I close my eyes and listen to the storm, her breathing. It should have always been like this. I keep replaying this moment, waiting for some clarity and direction, but nothing comes. I write it down, smoke another cigarette, and re-imagine everything in excruciating detail. This time the shutters are flapping against the walls of the room.
She's completely naked, and her hand is resting on my stomach; it's curled in a delicate fist. Asleep, she mutters something in a language I don't understand. I could listen to that sound for hours. For the better part of a decade, I've been moving, you know this.
Never anywhere drastic, never anywhere different. It's just the same people with the same furniture and the same discounted decorating scheme. My lifestyle makes it easy to leave. Living in and out of boxes for almost half of your life, you learn what you can do without pretty quickly. Up until three days ago, I haven't been sleeping. I've been sharing a bed with Mallorie for five years now, but she just wouldn't stop snoring.
I'm sure she's snored for years, but Christ suddenly it was the only sound in the room, and it wasn't even one of those adorable effeminate sounds; it was choking and guttural. I started imagining what could possibly be stuck in there: phlegm, cat hair, a fucking hamster. It took only two nights for me to become addicted to coffee again.