Some mornings seem easier than others: the coffee makes it from grinder to maker without speckling the counter; the anxious cat gets fed without being tripped over. There's no stumbling on this morning. For once, remember the front windows are open before waltzing through in only underwear; press play on the stereo and a favorite album is already cued up. Moving to the bathroom, the rush of what happened the night before comes in like the rain. Hands still holding the edge of the sink, the body goes down, down, down. There's only floor left.

You come home at night, nothing out of the ordinary; drop your keys on the table by the door, kick your shoes under the coffee table. You stand in front of your medicine cabinet mirror brushing your teeth. Staring. You get goose bumps when you hit the cool sheets, wrap your arms around the extra pillow. And then you dream, and you can’t tell the shards of glass from the fireflies.

She needed something to read. Her eyes darted from one end of the bookshelf to the other, then up and down; dragged her fingers across the torn spines of books read and re-read. What to choose, what to choose? Hundreds of books right there for the taking. She put her finger on an Updike; changed her mind. There’s always Hamlet—the good ole standby. Stepped back and stuffed her hands down into her back pockets. There: The foxed pages and bold cover-art of a Norton circa 1966. Settling in, the smell of the old pages was comforting.

The sign proclaimed “Irish Pub,” but the waiters’ t-shirts shouting, “Kiss My Blarney Stone” said otherwise. Tears for Fears and Keith Whitley covers-- it took five tries to enunciate BODD-ING-TONS to the bartender; I gave up and pointed to the tap. I did not want to rule the world. I was reminded how many shopping days I had left until the next St. Patrick’s Day (brought to me by Guinness), and my ass was inspected by men my father could have gone to high school with; still wearing their office-attire: ties loosened, khakis pleated.

The scream woke me in the middle of the night. And she kept screaming. It wasn’t the kind that just gets your attention; it was different because she was running, her sandals slapping between her feet and the concrete. I was hesitant about sleeping with the windows open in the first place. Ten seconds later, quiet; I listen for anyone in my building to make a move. Nothing—no doors opening, no shuffling, no sounds. I somehow fall back asleep. There were no sirens. The sun rises and I remember the hours before and wonder what happened.

He was sitting at a table by himself in the cafeteria, scraping the inside of a pie-tin with a plastic fork. He finished, and flipped through his tattered Star Wars novel and stood up. Lifting up the back of his black t-shirt, he crammed his folded umbrella into his back pocket, did an about-face, and— in what seemed the same moment of motion—placed a pair of wire-framed sunglasses on his nose. Later, I see him again, still wearing his sunglasses and stepping out of the convenience shop; he returned victorious: whistling, and carrying a bag full of Cheetos.

She ran across the pasture, her left hand at the small of her back holding up her too loose, busted blue jeans. The hair that had fallen out of her braid stuck to her collarbone. She had felt the wind pick up through the screen door and knew it was coming; the door slammed. The rain crested the hill. She ran barefoot; dodging the gopher holes she had tripped over before, praying she didn’t find a new one. The storm came; clouds anvilled out, there was green. Big drops. This was her storm. She held on; she let go.