Kathryn Stevens

The Comfort Inn

She sits alone in the room. Studies her fingernails. Is Brandied Plum really her color? Plumps the pillows on the bed. Checks her breath. Plucks an earring from the carpet. Tries to make out the words of the song playing next door.

still night
the uneven tick
of the bedside clock

He slips through the door. Grins sheepishly. She turns away. He mumbles something. Might be an excuse. Might not. She pours wine into plastic glasses. He strokes her hair. Begins teasing the buttons of her blouse.

loves me, loves me not …
a trail of petals
to the mailbox

He glances at the darkening sky. She reaches for what’s left of the wine.

parking lot
almost enough stars
to read his lips