He recorded it a month ago, when he knew it was over.  The death rattle of her soft palate strangling her. The soundtrack of their nights, their years together. He doesn’t nudge the phone awake, just lets her song play. Three more hours. Maybe three more decades. If he’s lucky.

Jim Parisi, a freshly unemployed editor, lives in Occupied Washington, D.C., with his long-suffering wife Beth and Dolce, their sweet but rambunctious boxer-pitbull mix. He spends most of his free time coaching Little League softball. His stories have appeared in FlashFlood Journal, The Bluebird Word, and The Good Life Review.