We both stare at it for a long minute.
Then he mutters, “Pillows,” and heads back to the bedroom.
I get to work straightening the sheets and making the bed. The bedroom door clicks, and a moment later, he sets the two pillows on the bed.
I shake out one quilt.
He grabs another.
We stand at opposite ends of the bed and take turns setting quilts out.
Not talking.
Once the bed’s made, we both stare at it.
“I need to write some stuff down,” I say at the same time he says, “I saw a book I’d like to try to read again.”
We look at each other.
Then at the mattress.
He clears his throat and sits on the couch.
I grab my journal and plop down in the middle of the bed.
He uses his phone for a light for the book.
I use the fire for the light for my journal, which I’m not writing a damn thing in.
Would it be wrong to invite him to sit here with me? The couch has to be colder, and he’s done so much work to get us ready to survive the night. He deserves to be closer to the fire.
If he wants to be.
Maybe his body temperature runs hot all the time.
Who knows?
He clears his throat again.
I glance over at him.
He nods at my journal. “You writing a book?”
“No. Lyrics. Poems. Gratitude. Trauma dumping. It’s all-purpose without a plot.”
He’s quiet for a long minute while the fire crackles and I hold my pen over the pages, my brain continuing to be a blank slate.
While I’m poised with my pen, unable to move, he shifts on the couch.
Is he creeping closer? Is he cold? Is the fire not putting out enough heat?
“I keep one of those with me most of the time too,” he says.
He isdefinitelycloser. Very much sitting at the edge of the couch.
I shift like I’m adjusting my hips and inch a little more toward him too. “For lyrics, poems, gratitude, and trauma?”
“Yeah.”
