Triangle He laid on his back, sinking into the layers of blankets on his mattress, his wiry body stretching diagonally from corner to corner, his hair sticking to the rough texture of the wall. His fingertips traced the veins of the oak headboard weakly, the feel of them not registering in his lead-heavy brain. The warm scent of fall wafted in through the open slit of the matte window mingling with that of glum, day-old sweat. He had not shifted an inch in the past eighteen hours, he had not had a single thought; he had just stared dumbly at the pristine stucco on his ceiling through a thickening haze. Three whole years and all for nothing, she had su
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