Her bed is saturated with sweat, so much that it could be wrung from the sheets, and it has grown cold and terribly uncomfortable during the night. It is her sweat, and though she hates the way it feels, against and alienated from her skin, she remains where she is, staring at the ceiling and vaguely wondering why the cracks in the plaster no longer bother her. Al, her old and new lover, occupies the place next to her. Still asleep, the expression on his face is one of garlic aplomb. His eyes are deep in their sockets, as if in retreat from too many miles witnessed. Sera’s eyes do not move; her mouth is dry and open. The bed is cold, wet, and fucked-up, and she wonders if it isn’t time to get out of it; indeed, the sun is already stale in the sky. Awakening two hours later, Al finds her lying next to him. The wetness of the bed delivers its message to him, and he secretly revels in the fact that he can still create this much terror in her. Safely on his target, he now admits to himself his recent doubts about his power over her.
