you can call it Al

“I can’t think of you, like that, anymore,” she said, and he said, “But you do,” and she answered, “I don’t,” and he said, “You do,” and she knew that he was right, because she did, and, worse, she tried to ignore it, or deny it. “It’s alright,” he said, but she looked away and said, “No, it isn’t,” and he said, “It’s not going away,” and she said … nothing, for she could think of nothing to say. “This is a dream,” he said to her, for it was, and she hoped that he was right, because it seemed all too real. “Please, leave me alone,” she said, and he said, “I have nothing to do with this, this is all you,” and she tried to wake herself up, because things always seemed better when she was awake and she would move and do things. He said, “I love …”, and, then, he was … gone. She woke, and sat. It was 6:17. Ayem. She felt herself, and she felt moist and warm. It was a nice feeling. But why? The dog barked. His name was Spencer. He’d named him. She’d wanted to call it Al.