Business Man: 6

I’m in the kitchen darkness. The laptop is shouting light. My hands glow, tap-tap-tap. My daughter lies in bed, asleep, and I cannot describe the ache in my chest when I think of her. My suit is burning on me like an infection; I want to rip it off, get into some old jeans, into a t-shirt, barefoot, plain. I want to make Cheerios and waffles. I want to spill milk on the counter, I want to hear her coming down the stairs and saying my name. But there’s still four hours until dawn, when the sitter cracks the eggs and burns the toast, slides the paper in under the door, leaves. I’m the shadow-father. This is why my body falls only as imagination. I struggle to keep writing this. I stare at the last sentence for fattening seconds. My fingers are shaking. I’m squeezing them in, but they’re dripping, the tears. I’m in the kitchen darkness. She’s sleeping, and goodness reigns.