She awakened with a gasp, cold, wet and naked. The apartment was still. He’d not come to the shower. He’d not come for his pills. A shallow cough drew her wet steps down the hallway, and she came to his bedside hearing labored breaths.
A moist touch didn’t wake him. Nor a shake. Nor the tears that fell on his face. His breath faded and rasped away, surrounded by his sketches. Surrounded, over and over again, by the wet haired, sad-eyed muse he saw only with his mind’s eye.
Copyright © 2018 by Jason H. Abbott, All Rights Reserved.
Discover more of my Aethereal Musings.