[ this is neither a scene from a memory or a dream: two men slip into a bed only meant for one, nose-to-nose, chest-to-chest, breath-to-breath. it is neither a memory or a dream because it is a haunting. kaveh's shoes toe off against the heels of midnight's midnight reaches for his phone. he tugs kaveh down. he kisses him.

kaveh feels, all of a sudden, claustrophobic in a way that he has never felt before. kaveh feels, all of a sudden, that he is small. both can be true. the thoughts come - that there may or may not be enough glue for the slats. that kaveh had been meaning to mix the paint, and will need to before the impetus overpowers him. that the rubber at the back of midnight's heels had been worn, and kaveh will need to take a look at it, to better see the wear pattern. see where it began and ended. in kaveh's mind, there is a storm. the briefest skim of midnight's lips is like perfunctory punctuation at the end of a long sentence, a grace note in flight. kaveh closes his eyes, and opens them. ]

Really. [ kaveh says the word with all the exasperation of a man made of it, and continues to be made of it, on a day five. ] Do you have trouble sleeping alone? Be honest. I'm rather miffed at you right now, so that's the complaint that I'll start with. It's the gentlest one I have.