Hotel ice humming, white shirt on a balcony rail, pool light trembling at midnight, cracked phone on the sink, her key card in his pocket.
One.
Rented room, soft ceiling stain, instant coffee ringed into eclipse, thin towel waiting on the radiator, neighbor’s baby rehearsing a scream, job alert blinking low battery.
Two.
Snow on the guardrail, flowers bought at the exit ramp, a song they skipped before it ended.
One.
Bus window filmed with old rain, paper wristband in the trash, his handwriting practicing sorry.
Better one or two, the optometrist asks.
He squints into the blur that stays.
This one, he says. Thanks, he says.