Jasmine Williams

On the bedside table there are two bottles of water collecting the white dust of the walls. The motel air conditioning is weezing in air like her nephews asthma, a narrow breeze on her fevery forehead.

Here, where a sign is saying "If you lived here, you'd be home by now", time is the friction between water and oil.

Maybe tomorrow she'll start the car again. Under her nails, the white dust collects as she scratch another mark on the wall.

After
two,
three,
days, not too tired but her body like a see through mirror.

The world behind the shutters, not the other way around, turns on the lights where a beat means going to the bathroom, another five to stay in bed.

Last night, someone had knocked on the door.

"Tomorrow" she thought and fell asleep.