We lay in bed. It is a nice day, the first day to merit being called nice in seven months.
“It is a nice day,” Y says, nodding to the world that lays just past the end of the bed. I look to where she motions. It is my apartment; cold, abnormal. I put my arms around her.
A noise climbs into bed with us. Drums, then a trumpet. Y gets up. I reach out for her, but she has passed from this world into the next. She goes and sits in the window.
“Weird,” she says, looking out. The trumpet and drums have made friends with a bassoon. I get up, the floor is cold. I walk over and look out, past her. A crowd has gathered.
A dead poet has been brought back to life.
“Kharms,” Y tells me.
“Haven’t read him.”
His head is bloated and gray. He is wearing a top-hat. A pipe hangs out of his mouth. He dances down the street. People clap. The band starts playing “You are My Sunshine” in Jazz style.
I go to the kitchen to make tea. When I get back, the crowd has grown. The Dead Poet Kharms is waving his left hand to the tune. A finger falls off. Someone from the crowd picks it up and stuffs it in their pocket, a girl, a souvenir.
We drink our tea and watch. At some point the man from the mart who sells me lamb sees us. He waves. I wave back.
I don’t recognize the song when it starts to rain. The crowd flakes away. The Poet’s hat falls off, taking half his face with it. The band leads him back to his grave, arm over drummer. The bassoonist carries his hat.
Y sighs. “That was weird.”
She places her tea onto the coffee table, half drunk. She heads back to bed. I close the window and join her.
** just as a bonus for today so that you all don’t think I’ve actually lost my mind: