I remember her smell; a faint trace of lemon juice and talcum residing in my nostrils. I see her climbing from my memory but without a face. I feel a tingling in my palms as if I were an amputee. It’s from the absence of her tiny hands pressed against mine. Here I am. I’m staring at a canary-yellow ceiling in an uptown apartment building calculating my losses, counting the time between each breath.

The voice does seem to be detached from the situation.