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The covers are empty and sky blue and on the corner of the bed in which you lie sits quietly a handsome man. He says he wants things and he most of the time gets them. The covers aren’t blue though, they are white. It is the light that makes them bluish in your eyes. The pale bed, the bleached wardrobe, the plain white walls. The room is soft focus but your limbs will not stop moving.

The handsome man, he’s a young man, a boy really, still babyfat in his cheeks. Unmoved he watches you contort in bed. He’s the baby that boy but in this room only you whimper. Not from pain exactly, not too much more pain than the pain of being, but there is a hum in your body that will not let you still, as if you have wind-up toys for blood, as if whatever travels your veins is a liquid motor and it shakes the bed.

You are a girl, no babyfat in your cheeks, you are a woman. Your tender breasts face one way, your hips the other and then they switch. You’ve caught no sun for days but your skin feels sunburned against the sheets. Your legs they don’t stop vibrating, sweating cold, rubbing each other.

A handful of cotton in your fist and he only says, Is it okay if I have some more? Your heart begins to leak water. The soft blue light becomes unbearable. You say, Of course, baby, of course, and you mean it when your organs begin to falter and more people begin to appear and you say, Hi people, hello, hello. And he says, What? And you say, It’s just the translucence of your skin, your careless touch that has me mortified. And he says, It is not me, you know. He says, You know it is not me. And you whisper, I know, no, I know. And you nod without lifting your face from the pillow but you still think it is him, at least in part. At least in part you think it is him because he’s fruitless.