Afterward

Seen from the bruised sheets the two open mouths of her shoes (one face down and drunk the other lopsidedly agape) speak to him in groans and murmurs. Her face smudges the glass in the bathroom mirror; she is squeezed into a jar of light. Headlights strafe the curtains. Her dress still clings to the oily surface of a hump-backed chair. Her bright red plastic pocketbook under its legs, dull now in the dawn glimmer. He hears waves crash in an empty wine bottle. She walks back into the room her white slip dips into hips. She is looking through walls all the way to a small grave. While she slept her body dreamt of this the night rowed her there on a black tide. Now on lights shoreline she will not look at him. She leaves quickly before empty words founder them both.