I Am the Place in Which Something Has Occurred - Anne Wright

The sheets were jumbled like peaks on a lemon meringue pie and the room reeked a sour citrusy scent, hot when it should have been chilled, and no sweetness here. Her robe was crumpled over his shirt on the floor, but in the doorway his pants made a perfect pile on top of the brown shoes he always wore.

The champagne flute, its lip broken and stem cracked had fallen upside down on the whiskery white wool carpet, a petal of rose red blood soaking into the fibers, turning dark around the edges. Balls of Kleenex wadded up on the nightstand.