Do turn the bathroom light off before you go

Enter the author, wearing a starry mantle and a crown of light. Nothing else.

The bathroom light is still on. The hum sings.

Down lies the author, sitting first on the edge of the bed, then back-crawling up to the headboard.

The room is not dark enough.

“Arrange my hair in a fan,” instructs the author.

The room smells like somebody else’s cigarettes.

I stand with my knees dug into the side of the mattress. I arch my long arms to reach the author.

The author lies, eyes closed, impassive.

The ceiling fan wobbles.

I gently lift the supine spine and smooth the starry mantle upward. It spreads like a picnic blanket showcasing the neck, the head, the hair of the author.

A trail of ants walks down the room’s southeast corner.

I hold my position as if decorating a giant cake.

I jerk the weightless neck, snap it upward, retrieve my gasp, sweep long hair up and out, release. I arrange, with my fingers, a fan of hair that matches the fan of mantle.

On the ceiling there is a pointing arrow showing the way.

The crown of light has tumbled under the bed.

“Bring in my nine o’ clock,” the author sighs.