. . .

Story begins with my father’s death
and then moves backwards. Hospital hallway,
2 a.m., and my mother signs the papers to
turn off the machines. Earlier that day,
calling in sick to work and then spending
the afternoon in bed with my girlfriend’s
sister. Kissing the scar on her left
breast, and when I ask her how she got
it, she just rolls away. Waking up to sirens
in the street below. Going to bed pissed, 
a fight about nothing at all. I remember
saying fuck you. I remember finding
the number in my wallet. Smiling as I
thought about what I’d say when my
boss answered the phone.