The red cloth fell softly down her sides. I stepped closer. Grins drilled deep into my neck. I tapped on her shoulder. The white of her cheeks grew red. I asked for a dance. She glanced around. Laughter behind me. She bit her lip. Her eyes met mine. “Okay,” she said. Her skin felt warm and soft. My hand pulled hers towards the circle at the center of the room. She smiled. My hand gently on her waist. Hers on my shoulder. Blond hair swaying from side to side with every step. The laughter stopped.
I stood up when the doctor stepped into the room. “It’s nice to see you again,” he said. His hand was cold. He glanced at the gray clipboard. “When is your child due again?” I asked. He looked up. “Two months,” he said. I smiled. “So soon? I’d like to buy her a gift,” I said. “To thank you for all that you’ve done for me.” His hands sank. He looked past me. “That’s not necessary,” he said. “And it won’t be possible.”
I spoke. She screamed. The bed too cold and too big for sleep. A breakfast without taste. A day without color. At home empty wardrobes. Ripped cards. A key on the kitchen table. No note.