She yawns asking, can we sleep?
I say I think I’m going to make some coffee, so I do. Sitting cross-legged on the linoleum supping undoctored coffee, my head clears a little. I’m down in front of the fridge, door open, unused creamer at my feet. I can see the patterns there again, beginning to cohere and dissolve, cohere and dissolve, as if to reveal all possible iterations to me, to implant me with themselves so that I may notice them again in the future and think a-ha! I recognize you. It is an act of loneliness. For a moment I am a secret friend, a confidante, a pupil. It makes me think that we ourselves could be shapes trying to fit together in ever-changing ways, like strange quantum enzymes in one state of embrace while simultaneously in another. We tessellate.
Her footfall in the other room become toes cold against my thigh, waking me, hair sweeping over me. She shuts the refrigerator door and sighs, angling to wrap her cool fingers around my neck and leads me to bed. I follow, watching her calves flex and her shoulders dip, imagining the moments as paintings done clair-obscur, the light cutting, rifting the small of her back, and then you’re in bed and calling me and I’m trying but I can’t and you’re staring and you touch me again with those same cold toes, and I tell you I’m sorry, I was lost in a thought. You laugh so I do, and I’m here again, feeling your skin on mine and time slipping, like a ribbon, right out of my hand.