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.