Fatigue like a hand inside an old soft leather glove, softly gripping my brain, the discernible pressure of its twitching fingers. Waking at around three or four in the morning, and instead of just desperately staring into the dark, slipping back into one snatch of dream or nightmare after another; waking from each with a jolt in the same instant that I registered relief that I might be sleeping. Finally I’d give up, let go of the pillow clutched over my head, get out of bed feeling shaky and drained, mentally rummaging and kicking through the debris of images and scenes that had been so jerkily streaming through me.Aura was the blue color of a Popsicle, or one of her old frozen household liquid cleaners, but she didn’t feel cold, curled alongside me, legs drawn beneath her, slowly bending over to kiss me, and that’s when I was jerked awake. Then I was in a department store’s grimy bargain basement, where in a plywood bin I found Aura’s dresses for sale, tightly folded into brick-sized rectangles, each with a crisp cardboard band around it; I picked one up, recognizing which dress it was, same with a few more, and then I was awake again, staring up into the dark.
