The morning light of a winter Sunday is just starting to filter in through the vine-patterned curtains of the bedroom. It catches on the glass alarm clock set to the left-hand side of the bed. A trapezoid of rainbow hangs on the white wall right above the baseboard molding. The room is virginal and spare. The mattress is set on a plain pine stand. The clean lines of this sole piece of Scandinavian furniture stand in stark contrast to the heap of bedding piled atop it. From this vantage, we can see a pair of bare feet sticking out from the bottom of this mess of blankets and down. The bedding shifts with a soft whisper and the ten toes become twenty.
“Good morning.” A voice murmurs, still floaty with sleep.
We can’t see their faces, but we can hear them smiling while they make their morning salutations. These are the voices of two people happy to wake to another day of each other’s company.
If we move further along up the side of the bed we can see two faces pressed close together. Their hair is matching-wild from the heat of their just-sleeping bodies and it sprays out in erratic fans across the crumpled pillows. They are laying facing each other, breathing carefully so as not to offend (neither one cares about the other’s morning breath, anyway), and looking intently into each other’s eyes. There is gratitude and contentment there. There is also relief that the other one is, indeed, real.
Look at them and marvel in secret. Surrounded by a corona of gentle down, we don’t need to be told that we are looking at something sacred. One shuffles her body caterpillar-like to the other and kisses her on the neck. This is met with a sleepy, radiant smile and a short exhale through the nose. At the other end of the bed, their feet tangle. Under the warm blankets, holding fast against the winter wind rattling the pre-war windowpanes, their fingers lace together.
“I’m so glad to see you.” The caterpillar girl whispers against a delicate collarbone. She moves her head down and presses her ear to the heart beating beneath a soft breast. On the other side of the network of endless nerve cells and liquid highways moved the other half of this beautiful engine.
The other half lies still for a moment to let her woman listen. She smiles again, that sleepy, dream-world smile that speaks royalty folds her arms up around to her chest, holding her love’s head by the jawline and nape. The other half cranes forward slightly to plant a kiss on her crown.
Outside, the city hums along, minding it’s own business as it has for centuries.
“I love you.” She says through her kiss.
“I love you.” She says to her heart.
And so we, being polite, leave them to love each other.
Tornado Allie writes The Attention Whore Diaries at Salon.com. The original post is here.