Along The Bedside

The cuff of a tuxedo, wrapped in plastic, drifts in the wind that comes from the air conditioner. Light, illuminating from the screen of my laptop, shines on the crevices between the wrinkles of plastic. The dark room covers my skin like hollow weight. Staring again, the plastic now jangles like the fingers of a skeleton. It moves like my father's face. It lingers with life as it tells me of my youth. My body turns cold and my eyes turn dry, but I dare not turn off the air conditioner. Without the wind, the plastic would sink into the lining of the suit and tell me my father is dead.