by Jeff Friedman
His girlfriend no longer knew he was living with her. His personal items were gone, and his side of the closet was empty, but he slept in the chair near the bed every night and ate breakfast and dinner with her, and they watched TV together. Sometimes she’d leave the room and come back to find that the channel had been changed. Then she would peruse the room, but she couldn’t see him. Of course, they didn’t make love anymore—he missed that—because he was invisible and because she had broken up with him a year ago. “You’re disappearing right in front of my eyes,” she had said, her eyes boring into him until there was nothing left to see.
JEFF FRIEDMAN has published eleven collections of poetry and prose, His work has appeared in Best Microfiction, New Republic, New England Review, Poetry, and American Poetry Review. He has received an NEA Literature Translation Fellowship and numerous other awards.
Photo Credit: Angin Harutyunyan on Unsplash
