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She places her book, marked with a coupon I've been meaning to use, on the nightstand. She turns the light out on her side. It's her side, her light. The left side is mine. Night. Night. We're past clutching love. We're not married, but I think I know what it means. It's two lonely people; it's two sides of the bed. It doesn't take her long to fall asleep. I watch her forehead unwrinkle. I listen as her inhales and exhales become spaced and even. At this moment, I do not know her. She's not a woman. All the inviting curves collapse. She is a girl breathing in, breathing out. In a memory she related to me--I think she related to me--she asks a boy to give her a turn on a swing. It's toward the end of recess. She has waited. He says no. This is my swing. She says it is the school's. He says the school isn't sitting in it. I can almost remember why she told me this story or some story like it. I can't sleep without my fan on. She can't fall asleep with it. I'll give her a couple more minutes. I wonder what violence she dreams of, of what forbidden ecstasy she views in her private night. I do not know her. She looks vulnerable, her body now bent in an S shape, facing away from me. Am I scared for her? Of her? Still sleeping, she bunches up her comforter; she brings it to her face. Maybe that's marriage: being scared for and of. I turn on the fan. She stirs. I'm sorry. I'll turn it off. You can leave it on. I'll turn it off. Leave it. She pulls my arm under her neck. She brings her bottom against my thighs. Will you hold me? Just for a second. I can hold you longer. Just a second.
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Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 5:48 PM UTC
Sleeping Positions
She places her book, marked with a coupon I've been meaning to use, on the nightstand. She turns the light out on her side. It's her side, her light. The left side is mine. Night. Night. We're past clutching love. We're not married, but I think I know what it means. It's two lonely people; it's two sides of the bed. It doesn't take her long to fall asleep. I watch her forehead unwrinkle. I listen as her inhales and exhales become spaced and even. At this moment, I do not know her. She's not a woman. All the inviting curves collapse. She is a girl breathing in, breathing out. In a memory she related to me--I think she related to me--she asks a boy to give her a turn on a swing. It's toward the end of recess. She has waited. He says no. This is my swing. She says it is the school's. He says the school isn't sitting in it. I can almost remember why she told me this story or some story like it. I can't sleep without my fan on. She can't fall asleep with it. I'll give her a couple more minutes. I wonder what violence she dreams of, of what forbidden ecstasy she views in her private night. I do not know her. She looks vulnerable, her body now bent in an S shape, facing away from me. Am I scared for her? Of her? Still sleeping, she bunches up her comforter; she brings it to her face. Maybe that's marriage: being scared for and of. I turn on the fan. She stirs. I'm sorry. I'll turn it off. You can leave it on. I'll turn it off. Leave it. She pulls my arm under her neck. She brings her bottom against my thighs. Will you hold me? Just for a second. I can hold you longer. Just a second.
jj-hutton
Written by
jj-hutton
American
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 5:48 PM UTC
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