Roy DeMeo opens his dresser drawer.  He pushes his socks to the side and
picks up the knife.  He looks at it.  He watches the moon on the
blade and smiles.

"Honey."

Roy stands still.  He closes his eyes and pretends to disappear.

"Honey, come back to bed."

Roy sighs and puts the knife back in the drawer.  He leaves the drawer
open and walks to the window.  He watches the grass.  I WANT THAT
GRASS, he thinks.

"Honey, it's late."

Roy looks down at his boxers.  He looks at his dress socks.  WHY AM I
WEARING DRESS SOCKS, he thinks.

"Honey, come back to bed, sweety.  Honey..."

Roy sits on the floor and rubs his legs.  He cries.  He wipes
dripping snot from his nose on his palm, then onto his business socks.

"Baby, sweety pie, come back to bed Honey, Pooches, Honey Pie, Baby, Sweet
Thing, Sweety Honey Pooch, Fluffles, Baby Pie, come back to bed."

Roy lies on the floor and stares at his ceiling.  PILLS, I NEED GRASS
PILLS, he thinks.

Roy listens.

Roy stands up.  He gets back in bed and stares at the empty space next to
him.  He closes his eyes.  Roy sleeps.  He dreams of sleeping
next to a big knife.

BIO:

Ken Baumann is a little of everything.  He blogs here.  He started the online magazine: No Posit.