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Jennifer Pieroni
THE MOTION SENSORS GO
My dog barks wishfully at the window as a car pulls in behind the complex. It is so
late it could only be my date because he has told me how he waits until his wife and
daughters are paralyzed in REM sleep.
I have a surprise of sand and wind candles from the discount rack, my family
except my dog vacationing (maybe permanently) with relatives outside Disney.
My date has his key now and is as heartbreaking as a husband would be with his
cough, using the bathroom right away.
When he is finished, he opens the bedroom door and nods to acknowledge the
candles. I unwrap a throat lozenge and lean to taste the toothpaste cake on his lip
before giving it.
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