Published in Crazyhorse (Spring 2016)


The next morning, she eats a hard boiled egg like she usually does on Sundays: shakes the salt so it falls like a white dust on the egg’s rubbery surface, pops half into her mouth, chews. This morning it feels chalky against her teeth and her gums. Her mouth is dry and in one disorienting moment when she tries to swallow, she’s afraid she’s going to choke.

Her friends ask about her night and she tells them - about the sex they had on his desk and on the floor and how she’s pretty sure she left a sock in his room. She does not tell them about the moment when it started and he was so heavy and pressing, about the rug burn on the small of her back and how the skin on her knees blushes pink. She does not tell them about the way she feels a certain weight in the ends of her fingers now, about how when she walks, her legs feel like they cannot carry her the way they used to, that her chest is filled with a heaviness she can’t seem to shake.