Storm S. Cone

Him

I woke up again today. I find myself counting down the days until I don’t. Well, that's not accurate, I’m really just counting up to it, I guess. Unlike the cans of soup and old milk cartons I find throughout the storage rooms that have long been forgotten, I don’t have an expiration date. No ‘Best By’ mark, no stamp displaying the day I’ll belong in the bin. I roll over onto my side, the soft blankets moving with my body, cocooning me in cool, white cotton. My nose brushes against the nose of my bedfellow, our eyelines meeting. His eyes cast a dull glow, and he doesn’t respond to my movements. I wonder if he has one. An expiration date.