Prathna Lor

My husband died ballooning. I never remarried. I took on a new lover. I did not take on a new lover. I took on a new body. I called the body Hardy even though it referred to itself as Rohrer. He came on Tuesdays and Saturdays and we had brunch upstairs and sex in the basement. He teaches piano Mondays and Wednesdays. He drives a minivan on Thursdays. When I first met him he approached me and asked me to hold his forearms. Then he closed his eyes and did not say anything for a long time. I asked him why he asked me to hold his forearms and he said, No reason. I’m cold, I have a cold. Why can’t you just let me dream?

The librarian felt the curvature of the infant’s head. The dent was massive. It reminded him of his penis. He doesn’t remember how he ended up holding the dead thing. Only that it had a name and he’d forgotten it. He was standing in a kiddie pool. The sprinklers were off. He heard some crows and then nothing. He wasn’t sure if there were sirens or if he was going deaf. He wasn’t sure if his hand was a hand or a leg. Several cities away there was a fire and firemen who knew what they were doing.

The banker knows he should never dream of fish. But when he does he drives himself to a suspension bridge and hurls boulders into the river. He wonders if the river ever connects to an ocean.