first published in
in parentheses

I woke up alone. This wasn’t in itself unusual. I lay in bed for a while, unable to shake off the drowsiness. It was cold. Tugging the blankets up didn’t help. I wanted to recapture my elusive dream—the kind that seems to last as long as sleep itself. Time passed. I thought about her. I didn’t notice anything was wrong. I reached for my bedside water but the glass was empty. Through it, I saw that the numbers on my digital clock were vague: backwards 3s; imperfect 8s. I began to feel uneasy. I didn’t understand that I was dead.         
            I thought about her.

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