Robert pulls the gun out of his pocket, watching my face. He's looking for clues, but I am made of marble.

Rebecca, he says, and I remember again that I do not like the sounds of our names next to one another.
I tell him: I wrote Haikus.
I tell him: I was long-winded.
He grins and says, the two go hand in hand, don't they?
He's illiterate.

He shoots the dog.

I've been telling him ever since I've known him that the dog is on its way out. Hind legs broken, blind and angry, that dog was dead before it was born. But in a way, we all were, right? If not death, what is the space before the womb?

He asks me again what we're going to name the baby, and I don't have the heart to tell him that the baby left me weeks ago. Christopher, I say. Yes, I lay on that sticky plastic table, with goop on my belly as the nurse said, Oh. Yes, I lay in bed and bled out onto the sheets. A thick, lifeless mess of genetics burrowed its red flesh into my underwear. Yes, I let out a sob. Yes, I wanted to tell him. Christopher, I say again.

He fires the gun again into its thick white body. He lights a cigarette.

I get up and go into the house.

(in collaboration with wag scala)