It would be best if you just didn't get up this morning. Then you wouldn't notice my side of the bed hasn't been slept in. I knew you'd still be snoring when I snuck in through the garage and saw the empty wine bottle in the recycling bin. I'm sure it had been full before I left, just as sure as I am that if you wake now, you'll have a splitting headache. When your head hurts, you're cranky, unwilling to see reason, no matter how much I try to explain.
       I'm not even sure I can explain.
       If you stay in bed a little longer, maybe you won't see the drunken texts I sent last night in that hazy, timeless hour before the sun comes up but after the neon bar lights flicker out. It is surprisingly easy to type--I'm sorry. Confessions made to the screen have no gravitas. But then the whisky told me you wouldn't know what I was sorry for, so I sent another text and another, until it all snowballed out in a rush.
       Sorry, I screwed up.
       Sorry, the future won't be as we imagined it.
       Sorry, we'll never go on that trip to Athens you dreamed of.
       Sorry, there'll be no white wedding.
       Sorry, I'll never buy you your dream house. You know, the one you keep mentioning is so reasonably priced on Zillow, with the wide grassy backyard where you could grow flowers and keep bees. Where there was enough room for a dog and a swing set. Maybe a sandbox, too. Hint. Hint.
       Yeah, I'm sorry about that as well. There are never going to be a couple of tow-headed little kids playing in the yard. How could there be?
       If you stay in bed, you won't have to face the fact that even though the weatherman said it was going to be a bright, shiny day, the best we'd seen in weeks, there is nothing but shadows outside the window. It's not raining or even cloudy, but an uncanny darkness blots out the sun.
       Don't look up. Ignore that impossible...thing.
       If you keep sleeping, you won't have to pretend everything's all right in the world. You won't turn on the radio as you step into the shower and listen to the news like you always do. You won't hear the panic in the newscaster's voice as they speculate on that smooth, overgrown egg hovering in the sky. You won't learn that New York, London and Beijing all have their own ominous floating eggs or that those cities are silent now, blanketed in memories and ash.
       If you stay in bed, you won't notice when the live stream turns to static.
       I only hope the wine was good and the lingering effect of excess Cabernet keeps you abed for a little longer. Perhaps then, you won't notice me coming up the stairs. I try to avoid the creaky step, but I've never been very good at sneaking around. I've never made a habit of staying out all night.
       I shouldn't have made you worried. I should've come home. We could have drunk the wine together.
       At the top of the stairs, I glance out the window. If you stay asleep, you won't see how eerie the street looks--cars abandoned in the road, a bicycle leaning against the neighbor's fence, its front wheel still spinning. No sign of anything living. Not even that stupid marmalade cat that's always getting into the trash.
       Just gray ash falling like snow. Not the soft, feathery ash of a campfire, but something darker. Greasier.
       If you stay in bed for a little bit longer, maybe you won't notice the scent of burning flesh and scorched ozone. Not even that vanilla candle you like so much could blot it out. But if you're still snoozing, you won't have to curl your lip in disgust or run to the bathroom, gagging. I'm not trying to be crass, but you know you're sensitive to smells, and you did drink all that wine. (I know it's my fault for staying out so late. For arguing about something stupid. I don't even remember why I was mad anymore.)
       I'd hold your hair back for you. Of course, I would. But if you stay asleep, I won't have to.
       For now, you slumber. You look so sweet, snuggled up to the teddy bear I won for you at the fair that one time. His fur looks a tad damp, but a bit of drool doesn't bother me. You seem peaceful. I hope your dreams are pleasant.
       I wish it could last a smidge longer.
       Outside, something whirs. I can see a sliver of sky outside the bedroom window. You didn't draw the curtains fully closed when you went to sleep. I get it--you were drunk. And mad. Not thinking about a little moonlight or your privacy. Certainly not creepy spaceships hovering over the house.
       The metallic egg descends. When it cracks open, I wonder what will come out.
       I pick up a pillow. Press it to your face.
       It would be best if you just didn't get up this morning.