The guest room window faces east, and the light seeping through it is watery and weak. Birds chirp half-heartedly, as if it’s the best they can muster before the first worm of the day. Ruben’s flopped across the bed like a starfish, drained by the demands my body made of his once we were unclothed and entwined. I lie awake, following my mind as it wanders. Maybe a part-time job, even if it is a shitty one, would relieve some of the pressure on Ruben. And on me, if I could be less defensive and occasionally out of the house. It’s not like I write for the whole ten hours he’s pounding the car lot every day. And what’s stopping me from writing a little bit more? People all over the world make their living as writers every day. Taco Bell isn’t the only place in town signing paychecks. And if t
