Your lover’s back does not look quite the same this morning. No one else would notice the difference, if there even is a difference, but you could swear they have more vertebrae than usual. Something in the breathing, as you stare at them in the morning light. The light in the kitchen is just as warm as it always is, the coffee just as hot, but you cannot meet your lover’s eyes. They kiss you on the forehead, go off to work, shake their keys on the way out as they always do. Did they eat anything this morning? Did they speak? Of course they did. You’re probably losing your mind. You would call your friends to ask, if you had any friends left. You don’t, of course, haven’t for months. You only need each other. You only need them. You haven’t spoken to anyone in months. You count the notches on their back. You watch them breathe. You pray they don’t turn around.
