She wakes up in the morning in an unfamiliar bed and stares up at the unfamiliar surrounding windows. She sees cloudless skies all around her and misses the clouds at home.
She can smell his sweet muskiness, but can’t see him. All she sees are dunes of dark comforter surrounding her. She rolls over slightly and pushes her face into the pillow, breathing in deeply.
She just wants to remember this scent.
Later she finds out that the smell can be replicated with French cade and lavender.
She feels a slight vibration as he turns to face her, still asleep. His arm and shoulder come into full view…his neck, just barely. His face is obstructed by another heap of comforter, but she knows he’s facing her. She hears soft breathing.
The skies are so brilliant; they cast a pale blue hue onto his pale skin.
His shoulder is gleaming.
She moves closer, pushing the comforter aside, and watches him for a moment.
His eyelashes are thick and lush. His sleep is deep and reassuring.
She grazes his neck with her hand and he sighs. A vague smile creeps across his face. His skin is warm.
She doesn’t want anything to change.
She wants morning to continue to be morning. She doesn’t want to be overtaken by hunger or the need for a cigarette. She just wants to lie next to him and watch him sleep and graze her hand over his strong, beautiful neck again and again.
There’s an innocence that only groggy mornings can bring. The bed is large, the comforter bountiful. They’re swimming. They’re floating in an instant.
She sighs and knows that she won’t be falling back asleep for now and she’s sad because she knows she’ll become bored of staring at him sleeping before long.
bored at her own impatience.
She wants to feel like she has the ability to admire and adore for more than a few minutes, but it’s too early to even try to pretend.
She momentarily attempts to will his eyes to open with her mind.
Then she feels guilty for even thinking of disrupting his sleep and stops.
She showers instead.
She stands under the water and notes all the bottles and tubes of scrubs, shampoo and soaps lined up around her. She glances at the hair clippings around the sink, undoubtedly from the last time he buzzed his head.
His mechanical toothbrush makes her toothbrush feel bad about its self.
She doesn’t understand why electric shavers and buzzers sit in cradles that make them lean to one side.
She doesn’t know which towel to use, so she just uses the one that has been hanging on the shower rod. She digs her face into it and starts to dry off her hair.
It’s cut shorter than she had wanted it to be cut, but it’s not like she has a choice at this point.
The towel needs to be washed soon.
She quietly lines up her war paint and begins her ritual.
Bobby pin.
Lotion.
Gel.
Moisturizer.
Crème.
Take a breather. 5 counts.
Foundation.
Eyebrows
Eyeliner
Lash curler.
Mascara.
Blush.
Take a breather. 5 counts.
Perfume.
Blow-dry.
Pomade.
Take a breather. 5 counts.
Clothing.
She takes a moment to look in the mirror and frowns.
She wishes she didn’t have to go through the trouble every morning, but it’s her shield. She wouldn’t dare let the whole world see her as a blank canvas.
She pulls her shoulders back and smiles into the mirror.
She welcomes herself back into the world of the living.
She trots over to the door and quietly opens it.
The mornings here are much more pleasant. It has something to do with not having to go to work, she realizes.
She pulls out a cigarette and lights it.
She smokes and stares at the hills, the sky, the telephone lines.
She puts the cigarette out in the window box planter.
All her cigarettes from the last few days are lined up there.
Little soldiers, half smoked and damp.
She tiptoes back into the apartment and strolls over to the kitchen.
She pulls her laptop out and begins to contact people back home.
She asks mundane questions.
“How’s the weather?”
“Oh, things are great.”
“He’s still sleeping.”
She works on random favors for people and tries to fill the empty expanse of time with small tasks.
She considers writing up a to-do list.
She pauses and looks at the frying pan in the sink she promised herself she would wash.
It’s been soaking for a few days now.
He walks into the kitchen.
She looks up from the screen and her shoulders, which had begun to scrunch back up to their usual stress-position, slink back down.
He grazes his hand on her neck.
She sighs and feels a smile creep across her face.
His hand is warm.
She considers going back to bed.
I love you
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