4.9

[I try to not write about myself. So I won't.]

I can feel the dog's hot breath on my calf. The covers are painfully constricted around my legs, almost bound there by his weight and yours. I have to get up. I have work in an hour, and breakfast, and a shower to take. Your arm is so heavy on my chest, and I'm burning up from the heat of it. I can twist my neck and see the clock. It's six, almost. I've taken too much of the bed again, almost driven you off. You've stolen most of the covers again. They're half laying on the ground, I bet. I blink once or twice and I remember. I'm awake in the smallest room at a week-rate hotel. The dog and you are a thousand miles away, and I still can't purge the memory of what I wish were true. I'll try driving further tomorrow.

[Why are all my stories sad?]

The phone is lying there. It's six. I pop the plug out of the wall on accident, pulling on my phone, and the charger skitters across the floor. I'm distracted. The dream is still in my head, and I'm not sure I read the text right. It's from you. It's a picture of the dog. Things are normal. You must have gotten my letter. Maybe I have enough gas in the car to--yeah. I can be back tonight.