Sleep Whispers 'Come'

Now I can't return to the patio bar. I can't remember the way. Perhaps I want it too much.

He leaned in. His body. Bergamot and citrus. His muskiness. A curl falling before my eye, a knuckle pressing upon my temple. Studied grace. Sleep whispered, ‘come.’

Coruscating tikis. His stubbled jaw, now a hooded eye. Moistening breath warm on my neck, bittersweet. A smoldering cigarette. A Sazerac melting the rocks in a low ball on a high top.

I rise from bed. Pink slippers, slightly soiled, spilled coffee. Taking up my fraying shawl, quiet companion.

Legs splayed beneath the kitchen table, negligee rising above my knee. In the dark, I'm like Joe spreading out before his breakfast. My cigarette smokes. Alone in awakeness, I remember the unpleasantness.

Pressure on my bladder had waked me. Dawn’s antiseptic light. Anxiety, the issue of our congress. The children were coming. Joe on the toilet. The night light upon his flaccid form, leaning expectantly toward the towel rack.

'Have you found the road map, Joe?' I wished to review the route over coffee.

‘I’ve not looked for it Lucy, but I’m sure it is in my den someplace.’

‘Please find it while I make your breakfast.’ He closed the bathroom door.

The toilet flushed. Eggs, butter, lox tidbits coagulating in the pan. The faucet opened and quickly shut. Wiping his hands on his boxers.

I clattered his breakfast to the table, waiting, catching my breath, allowing the headache to pass. My cigarette in a shell on the teal surface, brown cross hatching. Resembling shallow water over sand.

Joe retrieving his paper. Mechanistic release of a lock clacking open, scraping draft stopper brushing the mat, clicking screen latching as he steps to the patio.

Imagining. Sticky slap of his old loafered feet descending the steps to the walk. Prodigious waist levering toward the newspaper. A floof escaping his boxers. Declamation of bellows as he straightens, grasping the paper like a claw machine. Gentle whistling, labored breathing.

Returning. Clicking screen door unlatching, draft stopper scraping, screen door clank-closing, barefooted stepping, latch clinking.

He settled into his chair, gleaming legs crossed before him. Pulling one brown sock over curling toenails, a delicate arch. Translucent stocking, now fully extended. All the way up to his knee. Then the other.

I sipped my coffee, waiting. He removed the rubber band from the paper, unfolding it luxuriously before him. An authoritative crack, straightening the creases. Leaning back in his chair, examining.

 ‘Joe, did you find the road map?’

‘I looked in the den, but I can’t seem to find it.’

‘I’m worried about getting the kids tomorrow. Please don’t stress me. I can’t take your shtusim.’

‘Please, Lucy. Maybe you should put out that cigarette.’

‘Oh, never mind!’ stabbing the cigarette into its shell, rising irritably from the table. Too quickly. The seashell clattered back to the surface, ash rising above shallow waters. Lukewarm coffee crash-splashing my slippers. Corpuscles draining.

Joe’s fleshy arms and comforting smell.

‘Please dear, just rest. I'll make it alright.’

I leaned back in my chair. ‘Please give me my water.’

This night. Legs splayed beneath the kitchen table, negligee rising above my knee. Alone in awakeness, directing a beatific smile against the unpleasantness. Like the beam of directed energy oncologists use to kill the cancer. Burning unworthy thoughts from my consciousness. I stub the cigarette and stand. Carefully.

I hang my quiet shawl, remove soiled slippers. I lay myself upon my side, pulling the blanket up on me.

I remember.

He leans in. His body. Bergamot and citrus. His muskiness. A curl falling before my eye, a knuckle pressing upon my temple. Studied grace. Pressing his lips into my hair. Sleep whispers ‘come.’