【by Talia Cutler】

You went missing when the street was still hot. You went missing when the days were getting longer and people had just begun to notice. The cat sat in your spot on the couch. You never came home after dinner.
What does it sound like? It sounds like calling your name over and over.
Your car was found in a junkyard lot three towns over. The leather seats had recently been cleaned. The fuzzy dice hung from the rearview window, sunbleached. The keys were in the ignition. You didn’t plan on coming back. There is an ache that cannot be named. No one talks about it, but we can feel it there.There is a hole in the living room on your spot on the couch. We try to blame the cat, but we know who it’s really shaped like. The neighbors put up signs with your face on them and a number to call. You look at me from everywhere on my walk to school. Your eyes bore holes into the back of my head, and I am always trying to catch you blinking. 
What does it sound like? It sounds like car horns on the interstate.
There is a diner where you used to go because the coffee tastes like licorice. The seats smell like grease, but I slide in and wait for you. I wait until the night shift tells me that despite their “OPEN 24 HOURS” sign, they would like to clean off the table. You should probably go home anyway, the busboy said, it’s four in the morning. Tal vez en otro momento, maybe another time.
I watch all the medical dramas that still run on cable. My favorite is General Hospital. You quickly learn to pick up on their jargon. Fluid in the lungs, superficial lacerations, benign tumors. It’s all very corporeal. I think about your skin. I watch General Hospital until my eyes hurt and start to water, but I do not stop. Each episode echoes an inside joke we once had but I can no longer remember. There is a rhythm on the screen, a beat, a color. 
What does it sound like, I think. What does it sound like?
It is your birthday and without thinking, I buy a cake at the grocery store. It is the generic kind, nothing special. The kind with white frosting and red balloons. My Aunt Cece would call it Processed Crap. It sits in my fridge for three days before I eat it with a plastic fork. It tastes stale. I miss you. Where did you go, I say. I hear no reply.  
What did you sound like?
We disconnected the number on the signs right before Christmas. We did it quietly. No one ever called, anyway. I don’t know who took down the signs, but one day they were all gone. It was sudden, jarring. You don’t stare at me on my walk to school anymore. There is more that cannot be spoken. The diner closed. They impounded your car. We got rid of the couch, then the cat. I keep the windows unlocked and try to stay up until morning, but you never come. Tal vez en otro momento. Maybe another time.