The fox takes a bride : stories

Abstract

If she lay on her side, her shoulder scraped the ceiling. If she lay on her stomach, ear-pressed she could hear the mumble of the people next door. If she lay on her back, she couldn't breathe. The moments before he left were the hardest. Her legs, full of musty air, would start to prickle at the sound of his electric toothbrush. She would trace his movements out on the ceiling with her fingertips. Bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom. All the muscles in her limbs would tense to stop from kicking. He'd walk out past her, a shadow she couldn't see, and the door would close with a click. Then she would count. When she could be sure he wasn't coming back, she'd slide the door open and breathe.