Every Day,
A Century


Threads of your hair and her hair mingle on the carpet. The window is open and you can smell the strip. You suck it, then her (asleep beside you), into your lungs. Married. The suite is disorienting and you miss your house. You and your wife’s now. The all-white bedroom you’ve fashioned. The only set of rooms that will remain private when you die. Your daughter will insist. Years from now everyone will see the peacock glass, down to the den and the three televisions. Imagine the burgers on the stove. But no one will know this. Precious quiet hour.

Emma Winter


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