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Their doubts never lined up like an overbite.

And it was a good thing; they were a buck and lucky for it. That’s how one of them said it. For being inside like they were, of a thing like they were.

Outside it sprinkled and puttered, leaked through the window mesh and onto the kitchen counter, glinting enoughly, a flat up surface, gritting and sparkling that seemed to define them. The air they kept inside was of a quality not unlike that of cloudy-day light in yellowing woods. It got ridiculous. To them, it felt like a nod.

Retirement dreams, baby. Doesn’t matter which one of them said this.

They fell in love and out of sleep holding hands.

And that’s not all.


To them, it felt wedged in at this point.

They made a thing of it.

Whatever they had wanted this coming evening was going to come and they’d have to try to sit with it long enough.


So for once there’s no bother at all.

And one of them, believe it or not—right, who would—didn’t mention something that should have been mentioned to the other.

This is a thing that can happen sometimes and it is usually not too bad, but it can be kind of bad. It happens though, and generally it seems, it is a people-like or person-like thing. A thing best left alone. Better off than to challenge it.



Let whatever’s left survive.

The point being when something goes right through something else and settles. The thing is it: it as it’s settling.

One asked the other to say something beautiful that the one could keep to the one’s self.

The other: “Water breaking like teeth.”

And the one agreed (“wow…”) and when one agreed with the other about anything, everything from there on was sweet.

Now then they felt like doing something. Tonight.

Something cheap.

One of them said something and the other one was patient.

“Where’d you put it?” the one said.

Already with the greasy eggs and dandelion tea a little while before. In their teaky, bright, wood-panelled room.

That actually could’ve been the day before.

They get tired.

A suggestion: maybe in a little bit they could have some, something puffy. One of them said something, then said another thing under breath and water while sipping: “Whoops, I really mean I’m sorry.”

Nathan DRAGON has been published in NOON Annual, Fence and New York Tyrant. Dragon is from (and currently in) Salem, MA working on a fiction.


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Partner to a press called Tenement, Hotel is a publications series for new approaches to fiction, non fiction & poetry & features work from established & emerging talent. Hotel provides the space for experimental reflection on literature’s status as art & cultural mediator. 

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