Wake/Asleep
She was lazily drawing circles on the back of his head, combing through the damp blond hair. She had felt the shampoo running off between her fingers- the scent of jojoba and mint mixed into steam. He hadn’t cut it in a while, so it was slightly longer and retained the manufactured rain in between the strands longer than it normally did.
She held a book in the other hand, against her thigh where one of his old t-shirts ended, and pale skin began. Her legs were curled closer to her chest, inwards towards the middle of the bed from her right-side claim. She had long been adapted to one-handed flipping pages- the heel of her left hand wedged into the crease of the spine, thumb caressing the bottom of the pages until finding purchase on the right page.
He’s drawing in a graph sketchbook, the newest project underway. Every once in a while, she glances over and see his brows squished in concentration, sleepy eyes going in and out of focus. The sketchbook is held away from her, and whenever she asks to take a peek, he shuts it tight. Whatever it was, the investment called for his ‘five more minutes’ to last at least twenty pages.
Not that she minded- she loved hearing his breath, and the little sighs and eraser smudging against the page. The nights when they were both putting lead and ink to the page sounded like a disorganized symphony. His scratches of numbers and little calculations would misalign with the sounds of her scribbling over mistakes. But, to her, it was a perfect in synchronization of both their minds existing in the same place at once; figuring out the equations both mathematical and linguistic.
She would read the little half-done poems, or paragaphs of half-thought ideas to him, before she shut them tight. She didn’t like it when people read her work, but it was secretly her favorite exercise. Sometimes he would read them, and she’d get to watch the little moments of glee. In a different notebook, she kept little phrases of these little expressions- because without them describing him would feel incomplete. This was a little book, one that could fit in her purse. In it, phrases said or notes of happiness were stored. When she was having a rough day she would flip to a random page and be reminded of all that life had in store.
And when a rough day wasn’t fixed by a glance at the little-joys journal, she would lay in bed and wait for him to come home. Like today, she would text him the code word for bad-days- and when she heard the truck pull up she’d walk downstairs and wait by the door, arms extended like a child crying ‘up up’ to their mother or father. He would walk in, drop his bag near the door, kiss her gently while he picked her up, and walk her back upstairs. He would hold her, and they would lie there in silence or quiet talk- a dog usually jumping up on the bed asking, ‘what for.’
It was a mutual promise, the same thing happened if she received the code word (or he just walked through the door.) He would walk upstairs and set himself on top of her, head against her stomach or chest, sighing into the folds of her clothes. Her hands would wrap around his head, massaging his shoulders and neck, feeling the wood dust and other common debris beneath her fingers. On request she would sing (although felt she did horribly) and he would no doubt feel the vibrations in her chest echo as lines from favorite songs escaped.
Bad days were few and far between, and in that between them was equally comforting homecomings and afternoons being happy. Making dinner, card games, target practice, 4-wheeler escapades, or cozily watching TV. Among other activities, she would always look forward coming home- especially to the scene unfolding around her currently.
She knew she was lucky- that the sunset light filtering across the sheets, and the heartbeat next to her was somehow the chosen sound she found longing for in sleep….
And now, she had found and figured that she must have fallen asleep reading, as her mind had drifted into blackness, and her thoughts were colors drifting in the universe speckled with generous starlight and memories.
When her eyes fluttered open, the sweet thoughts held for a second, leaving the sleeping smile on her cheeks. She stretched a little, feeling for a shoulder next to her, but instead feeling nothing but a stack of pillows to the right, over sage green sheets. Panicked, she shot up, the green and navy flannel she slept with falling off the bed onto the tiger she would sit in the classroom she was to teach.
Her heart is racing, feeling left-out of a beat. Left out of whatever dream that she wanted terribly bad to be a reality. She didn’t like this type of falling asleep
