This is how he touches her:
a hand on the chafed knee
like an aristocrat resting against a balustrade.
Then a tangled plaid shirt
slings over the pillow
as puke reeks in the guest bathroom.
I sit on the chair facing away from the bed.
Watch the shitty movie on HBO
so they won’t accuse me for being a perv.
As I leave, I walk past the two of them,
now asleep. I try to be inconspicuous, as I would be
when standing in front of a Rubens painting.
I could never bring myself to disturb the space between the bodies.
Cicero once mused:
‘he is alive because his friends still cherish him,
and remember him,
and long for him.’ I wonder how my friends,
the ones sprawled on the sheepskin rug,
or the ones snoring in the bedroom,
will remember me after I leave the room.
Or if they will remember me at all.
Ethan Luk was born and raised in Hong Kong, His work as a multidisciplinary artist has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, 92Y, and the All American High School Film Festival. He is currently a freshman at Princeton University.