Katrina Denza

Now, he's on the girl's Sleep Number, set to 30 which makes him unsteady on his knees, and he sees her parents clear as day, even though it's night, in the next apartment building, staring back at him. They're planted in matching recliners with a can of beer between them and a bowl of snacks in each lap. He jumps back from his girl's face. What the fuck? The girl doesn't even have to ask. Pretend they're not there, she says. They'll get bored and go to bed. Weak-kneed, he turns off the light. He closes his eyes and opens again. Shut. Open. Shut. Open. He blinks until he thinks maybe there wasn't anything to see in the first place.