Tiger wakes rumpled, whiskers crinkled, the blue of her eyes soggy with sleep. This was not the morning she envisioned, summer turning in for the year, fleece blankets and long pajamas emerging and under-cover cuddling the way to get warm. She didn't sleep last night, and neither did I. I crashed, face-down like Tiger must have, into a corner of the airless green couch, turning my head to escape its sueded depths. John slept at ease. I curled myself into one position then another against his long frame to say silently he loved me. It seemed his pores could communicate an unconscious caring. Maybe mine could too, so if we lay together long enough, skin breathing in skin, he would start to believe. When he woke he struggled back into his shirt, asked for a soda to wake him up for the ride. I gave him my last cold one. He would call, he said. When he needed me, he would call.
The World I Live In