a sad girl

…lying in bed this morning, I woke to the sound of the bedroom door opening.

I hear my wife slowly close the door behind her. I hear her footsteps on the floorboards, approaching my side of the bed.

I cannot move, cannot open my eyes.

I feel a fingertip on my arm, just inside the hinge of my elbow.

The footsteps move away. I struggle to rise, to grasp the her arm but my hand feels strange, tingling in the air where I reach for her, a moment’s resistance . . . then the woman pulls away and walks into a little alcove on the other side of the room.

The woman is gone. It was not my wife. It was someone else, someone younger — her hair was longer, darker — and she had long scratches or cuts down her arms. And she was sad.

I cannot confidently say whether or not this was a dream.