All day long I am working my tongue between the same crevice where the husk of a popcorn kernel is imbedded between my molars. We had stayed in to watch a movie. A staycation, my wife called it.
The film was about a woman whose nightmares come true, one at time, as some vague specter appears intermittently, slashing all of her college roommates to slices with machetes.
When I turned out the lights I leaned away from the window, using the curtains to shield me from the man in the car studying our movements, the man who, like me, had kissed her lips, shared her bed, held her beating heart close and safe. The very one.
Len Kuntz lives on a lake in rural Washington State with an eagle and three pesky beavers. His short fiction appears in places like Camroc Press Review, Right Hand Pointing and also at http://lenkuntz.blogspot.com.
