by Eric Maroney Europeana ​“Get up,” she tells him. He is tangled in the sheet, one eye peeking out like a cyclops from its lair. He groans. ​“Why?” he asks from a perch of unaffected confusion. “What’s out there?” ​“Your job?” she turns. The morning light appears to singe the margins of her pale skin. “You can’t be late anymore.” ​“Hate,” he mumbles, drowning his eye in the sheet, digging deeper in the unreality of her bed. ​“You hate your job,” she jabs. He moans. “You’re i