After Nighthawks by Francine Witte
You order the coffee that lies mud-dead on your tongue and the couple at the other end of the counter seem to be screaming their twoness at you.
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I no longer harangue every desk nurse at every hospital for a taxonomic breakdown of her bills. I don’t ask for the numbers of the Benadryl, the water cups, the abdominal touches done with gloved hands. I am the most American I’ve ever been—she costs what she costs and I eat it.
You order the coffee that lies mud-dead on your tongue and the couple at the other end of the counter seem to be screaming their twoness at you.
We find the first tavern that will have us. There, through clam chowder grins we eat the cold out of our bodies.
Despite it all, I throw my body onto the ancient path of living.
Nobody recognized the reaper without his black-hooded cloak.
She can transform, weigh so much, weigh nothing at all.