She continues picking her lower lip.
Bracing her belly.
You hug her and think about how you cannot think of anything else to do so you hug her.
She continues picking her lower lip.
And now you hear it.
At first you believe you are not hearing it, that it is an auroral fata morgana originating in the pith of your brain, but now you hear it and you know you are hearing it.
You are hearing something so weak and high pitched and unnatural coming from the back of your wife’s throat that you begin palming her head instinctively, rubbing her occipital lobes, trying to calm down whatever is living inside her, trying to let it know everything is safe, it is okay, it can come out now.
——
Either way, Andi rolls over and curls into you.
You remain in this position five minutes, forgetting.
Forgetting being the opposite of a passive activity, general wisdom on the subject notwithstanding.
Now you roll over and curl into her. You remain in this position three or four minutes. Now she climbs on top of you and lies there. You lose your sense of time. Now she rolls off and you climb on top of her and lie there.
It could be two in the afternoon.
It could be eight in the evening.
Now you roll off and you both lie side by side, holding hands, fully clothed, and when you check the clock it is 11:11.
Holographic projections in a virtual world that only looks like the world you are familiar with, to cite another possibility.
Another possibility among many other possibilities.
Someone else’s dreams.
Your dreams, inhabitating your sleep, which you mistake for a state of wakefulness.
It could happen.
Anything could happen.
Anything does.
Always.
I only have eyes for you
