Smile
Waking up in Connecticut is odd, even though you’ve been doing it for two months since leaving Manhattan. But this morning seems different somehow. Hungover, ready to heave, you slide across the bed that is wet and smells like blood. Where is your wife? Kids already at school?
Your feet find the floor. You stagger to the bathroom. Afterward, you study your face in the mirror. Not bad, you think, not bad at all. Still the fox. Things go well, better than you expected.
Moving to the country is working out, even though it is much like the recurring dream you told, and warned, your old therapist about.
The meddling bitch asked too many questions. And when she said “See you next week,” you just gave her that new eerie smile of yours.
