There was some kind of parade going on outside.
"What is it?" she said.
A muffled cacophony of whistles, drums and tubas.
"I don't know. Italian Day?"
"There's no such thing as Italian Day."
"I was only joking."
From their perspective on the bed they saw the Star-Spangled Banner floating by. A little jumpily so you could tell someone was holding it up.
"There goes the American flag anyway," she said.
A moment passed.
"Should we check it out?" he said.
"I can't move," she said. "I'm full to bursting with banana pancake."
Another moment. Then –
"Do you think –" he said, but then and there they were plunged toward the ceiling that they had for many months beheld together; they fell heavily upon it, the plaster cool and hard beneath their naked flesh, and the futon and frame bounced once on their backs, and came to a smothering rest upon them. He hit his nose and mouth, unable in his bewilderment to put his arms before his face. She fell a bit more on her shoulder, as she'd been facing him a little in their bed, her hand on his chest. They thrashed and cursed beneath their burden.
"Jesus!"
"Fuck!"
They managed to crawl out either side and face each other above the bottom of the frame. A deep murmur of dismay and terror emerged within her and rolled into a moan. The sound of someone sliding over a precipice.
"What the fuck just happened?!" she said.
He got up on his knees without an answer. She crawled around the mattress to him and was momentarily distracted from her dread by the sight of blood dripping down his chin and falling in rich drops upon the milky white ceiling, wispy with webs.
"Are you OK, baby?"
"Yeah, yeah. Yeah. Yeah."
"Baby," she said, "we're upside down."