Myra would often hold a gun to your head while you were fucking. It had nothing do with violence, she would always say, just that it left her with a little more control than normal sex. Of course, you never knew if she’d accidently pull the trigger and decorate those horrendously ugly flower-printed pillowcases with a mix of skull and gray matter. You’d often think about the times she shifted the gun from hand-to-hand in the midst of jockeying back-and-forth and wonder if it did actually happen. If she really did let that white-painted fingernail slip, what would your parents think?

​One time she dropped the fucking thing and for a moment you didn’t know whether to keep your fingertips lodged in her love handles or snatch the gun from the very edge of the bed. Too bad you didn’t grab it, because it probably would have provided some interesting fodder for those awkward moments when you didn’t know whether to leave her
apartment or just fall asleep. She knew you didn’t have a dog or a cat and therefore there was just no excuse for taking off. You were stuck there ‘til morning, and it would be a rarity if you didn’t sleep with one eye open.

​You often woke up to the sounds of Myra’s coffee machine buzzing in the kitchen. She only made coffee because besides the sunlight, it was the only thing that convinced her it was morning. You could stumble out of the bedroom and forget that you had to be at the office in an hour. Myra would be sporting an aged Misfits t-shirt, hint of
mulberry blue panties peeking from the spotted edges of the once-black fabric. And you, well, you really didn’t know what to say. One time she convinced you to call in sick and spend the day watching old episodes of M*A*S*H. Yeah, you really fucking hated that show when you were a kid. Just that theme music alone would cause you to wish for
additional homework or maybe a stomach virus back in those days.

​Myra once told you that she didn’t think she’d live past thirty, that the world was cold and tough and not even a character like her could survive on emotion alone. You laughed and flipped over the spoon next to your espresso, almost pretending like she wasn’t crying out for help or attention. There were times you thought you could love a
girl like Myra, maybe hold her hand under a perfect Boston sky and pretend that you never loved anyone before woman whose cheeks would blush anytime you’d say her name aloud.

​You fell asleep last night while Myra was talking to you. You probably dreamt about her, but you’re not too sure. You met her for coffee after work and before long there she was again, perfectly polished weapon staring you in the face as she drove harder and harder on top of you. You swallowed three or four or five Xanax and at some point the ceiling melted into a perfect chasm of black and red liquid, leaving only the blurry remains of a gorgeous night sky. Every broken star split into a glittery explosion of static and pain, Myra’s soft fingers tracing a triangle right below your bellybutton as if she was about to remove your spleen. She spoke of butterflies and hurricanes and in minutes the words popped like glistening fireworks before the fuzzy backdrop of slumber tugged at the strings behind your eyes.

​At times throughout the night you could almost taste her tears, the dewy rapture of beauty’s epic collapse. You closed your eyes whenever she would stop crying, picturing her face in black-and-white, buried in a comfortable mess of black satin blankets, nose and mouth breathing into a pillow that probably loved her more than any of the
men in Myra’s life. She grabbed your side and the embrace of fingernails and flesh aroused you out of the last remaining bits of sleep dancing in the forefront of your mind. She spoke of good times and bad times and times where it felt like she could die at any moment. You didn’t know if you were smitten with her or wanted to run through the bedroom door and into the nude allure of the night.

​Myra finally fell asleep around four or five in the morning, waft of blonde-and-black hair stuck to your naked chest like dead spiders. You nearly wanted to shift her head from your body back to her side of the bed but changed your mind when you could see her eyelids vibrate with the satisfaction of an elegant dream. You smiled once and ignored the
exhaustion in your bones, the way your muscles would throb at just the simple thought of making it through a Thursday without the proper rest. A lone piano note played in your head, Myra’s supple breaths the perfect melody for closed eyes and a return trip to the land of slumber.

You woke up this morning and there was no coffee pot brewing, no insipid grace cross-legged at the kitchen table. You looked all over the apartment. Bathroom, guest room, hallway.You sat on her couch and flipped on the television. Static and the welcoming lullaby of white noise. Within a few minutes you ignored the morning news and saw the rumpled edge of an envelope gently resting on the edge of the television. Your name was written in cursive lettering, swoopy flow of purple ink. You pulled out the note and read it once aloud, once in your mind. You put it down, not sure of whether to cry or to go back to sleep. You stared at the blistering sun outside the living room window and traced a single ray of light from the glass through the gentle dust floating through calm apartment air.
​You got dressed and walked out of the apartment, not worrying about locking the door because Myra would never be coming back. Yeah, she wouldn’t be back here at all. And neither would you.