“You’re not.”
“See, why don’t I believe you?”
“Because I’m just repeating what you said.”
“So you don’t hear that?”
He opens his mouth, pauses, then closes it. We wait and listen. There’s the hum of the air conditioning, the thud of bass from our downstairs neighbor’s music, the distant chirping of crickets outside.
“I don’t hear anything,” he says. “Maybe you’re just—”
“Don’t say it.”
“Okay.”
As he lets out a loud sigh, the foot of our bed dips down, as if someone neither of us can see just sat in the center.
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