I press my forehead into the door frame, one foot in her bedroom, one in the hallway. This is not going as planned.
There's a wall in front of me and I don't see any footholds. It looks slick with precipitation. Or perspiration. Mine? Hers? My eyes are dead in their sockets. I let them rest on the floor.
The light from the living room flows down the hall. The fireplace cuts an angular shadow, a line between light and dark, a branch across the stream.
I don't look up for a long time. What's there to see, anyway? Me, making mistakes. Her, internalizing them.
The wood grain laps at my ankle. My foot sinks into the golden sand.
