Problems of the Flesh – Hamilton Perez
It was the month of the apocalypse, and I’d come home to a house of shadows and gloom. The curtains and blinds were all shut, barring any light except what leaked through the door. The air smelled like spoiled fast food. No sound came from within—not his labored breath from the recliner, not even his favorite sitcom laughing hysterically at itself.
That was the first time I doubted.