There should be grief but there is none...

Waking up on Monday morning, the alarm on my phone doing a half-second high pitched noise that wakes me more effectively than anything ever has.

I lie on the floor on my stomach, my faded sleeping bag, green flannel lining, beneath me, around me.

Rotating ankles, feeling the unwinding of tense muscles created by eight hours in too-high heels the day before, slide a leg past the zipper boundaries, twist the pelvis slowly and feel the pop, then the other side. Arms extend forward, brushing the carpeting, spine rolls, twist onto my back, arch, and sit up.

Shove the sleeping bag down to mid-thigh and wiggle out.

Sunlight through the unshuttered window, pale carpet, white walls, the slight, slight, slight hum of a fan. My friend sleeps behind Chinese screens and I dress silently, sliding off pants, stepping into underwear, balancing on one foot as jeans travel up each leg. Sleeveless tank is switched for bra and shirt, gently tugging hair trapped between flesh and fabric.

Look out the window. Two minutes have passed, nothing noticable in the gaining light. Shoes are laced loosely and sleep-clothes are shoved into the bag, hefted on one shoulder.

I reach for the door knob and notice that sometime in the evening, sometime in my sleep, I moved my faux-wedding band from my left ring-finger to my right.

Unsettled, I leave.