book of days serial #1

The night was white cold and clear in its desert hoary winter moonlight. By then she was sleeping not in the spartan bedroom, but out in the living room so the wintry wetness of the night pool-light wove mint tinged nets across the ceiling. There she slept on a faded red futon mattress that she purchased after it had remained on outdoor display in a parking lot for months the previous winter. The cats enjoyed its salty, oily odor. She slept there wrapped in a thick sleeping bag. The sleeping bag had a psychological purpose. In light of the uneasy sense she had that sleeping regularly in a room other than the bedroom could be construed as the first step toward something unnamable, she told herself that she was sleeping under this arrangement just until the insulation of the sleeping bag made the heat prohibitive, and just until the task of fitting wispy sheets to the mattress every evening became too daunting and indicative of her mania for hiding the issue, just until the heat blossomed, just until the fires began to burn in the mountains and set to weaving the brimstone grey nets across the bedroom ceiling, sleeping out here only because the bedroom in the apartment was so stark, so damp, only because the palms scraped against the screens and there was no one to wake her up in the mornings.