Monday, January 5, 2009

sleeping pill

She is like a sleeping pill.

He leaves the bed every morning at 5:45, throwing back the layers of duvet and afghan and top sheet, inadvertently inviting the biting cold in. He's good about it, though. Before he hits the shower, he'll make sure the duvet and afghan and top sheet are all back into place, make sure that you are warm and safe until it's your turn to face the morning chill.

5:50, and the shower is running. This is what must wake her. The sound of the shower, or the fan he turns on to whisk away moisture that, if left to cling to the marble and glass, will encourage a colony of mold to take up residence. The fan is necessary, but loud, and it's probably what stirs her from her underneath her own duvet, in her little bed at the other end of the house, what sends her running through pre-dawn darkness down the carpeted hallway.

Now it's her turn to throw back the covers, but you don't mind. She is like a sleeping pill. Spooning you with one arm wrapped across your waist, knees tucked up into your wheelhouse, she is warm and soft and delicious, and within minutes of the interruption, you drift back to sleep, knowing that this next hour will be the best of the night.
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  1. The third paragraph really caught me off. . .I was still with him in the shower, figuring that she, say like I still do? will throw her legs over the bedside when he's done.

    No such thing.

    There's someone else down the carpeted hall. . . .

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