April Twelfth, Two Thousand and Seven After Death.
Fifteen minutes to Eight Post Meridian.
Narrator says: 4 Bd Voltaire. After months of deliberation, a three second flourish on the signature rendered the third floor apartment on the left here under the joint ownership of Brahman and Manitou. It is small. Cramped. The walls lean over you as if to crash down around you, a surf of bricks, to drag you out to sea. But the ceilings are high, and open up the environs, allow you to breathe.
The large room, street side, is for them. Brahman has already bought the blue pastel paint for the small room, courtyard looking, and a flat pack cot.
It’s not too soon, for all this… don’t you think? - Manitou had said.
- Nah, it’ll be perfect. It’s all perfect. perfect.
They laid back on the sofa, in each others arms, Manitou laid her hands on her stomach and looked along the walls, poised to crash. Perfect.
It will be three months, five days, ten hours and forty-seven minutes before, sitting in the doctor’s waiting room, they receive the news that it was is will, not.