The stillness of the morning gently cradled her into consciousness. His room, facing east, meant the sun clung heavily to their resting figures. Unwilling to move, and to disturb the precarious balance of their bodies, she clenched her eyelids and sighed deeply. His subtle snores tickled the curve where neck meets shoulder and she suppressed a shiver so as to preserve the tender liminal space, thick like honey, that surrounded them. She smiled at the dreamlike memories of their awkward tango from the night before. The hesitant brush of lips, light sway and twist of limbs unaccustomed to such overt display of affection. And then shaking fingers fumbled on buttons, zippers, in a desperate attempt to shed their garments, as the inevitable force of their attraction overwhelmed them. They had been shy at first, caught in the uncertainty of the moment, movements tentative in their attempts to reconcile what-was and what-will-be. But soon, they felt a mutual release, a humble freedom from cerebral attachments of meaning, and their act, this act of coming together became an eddy in the ever-shifting currents of their lives. He grunted, the shifting of his body enough to break her reverie. Eyes open she gazed at the floor, pools of warm sun illuminated the evidence of their night together: shoes, jeans, socks, a floral top. The empty wrappers of what-was and what-will-be. She clenched slightly, as he yawned loudly and drew her closer. Aware of his mounting wakefulness, she clung hopelessly to the dreamy threshold as it sped mercilessly from her. As his breathing shallowed, and his fingers began to twitch against her bare skin, the equilibrium of their drowsy bodies began to crumble. “Are you awake” she whispered, resignedly shattering the remaining stability. He yawned again and stretched his arms overhead, collapsing onto his back in response. She turned to him and felt an equal reluctance and anticipation for the inescapable re-balancing act to come.
Home Sweet Home 