Sitting on a rocking chair with his back supported by his lumbar-thoracic vertebra. The ones on the right side, so not really vertebra but lower ribs.   she is face down on the Italian cowhide sofa, her head over the arm as though awaiting the Guillotine.   the dog taps impatiently and is calmed by a left hand.   for a while he types with one hand.  Slowly she rolls over, gasping.  Her movements are forced, both careful and clumsy, like rasping breaths.

Later on he helps her down the hall.  They go slowly, facing each other as they move with toddler-crab steps.

She lays on the bed in considerable discomfort.  Foetal position.  He lets the dog in.  He covers her with the wool blanket that they bought in Antigua, Guatemala.    She loved it and picked it out after a small bit of bartering.

He returns to the kitchen to get a glass of water.  He drinks one and allows the tap to run, filling the glass a second time.

Dog and cat join them on the bed and all is quiet save the breathing of the dog and whir of the fan from the computer.   And typing.

Every now and then a zephyr can be heard from the darkness outside.

She rolls slightly beneath her blanket and moans softly.  He pauses and checks the stainless steel bowl beside him, as though it might have moved on its own.   His eyes wander to the beige towel thrown over the bifold door of the closet, then down to the roundness of the dog’s bed.   He checks the spelling of ‘its’ and continues writing.  Back over on the dog bed, her stretchy black pants lay crumpled in a pile beneath coral pink striped panties.

He recalls his walk with the dog at sunrise this morning.  He thinks about hugging the tree, his face to the bark and his body pressed to it and the conception of a performance art piece in which people are invited to hug trees in the nude.  Silently and with slow, purposeful motions.  Maybe it could an attraction, or maybe an event – weekly, or monthly perhaps.