He Said:
I can't sleep with her next to me. Her hair spilling on my pillow, the rise and fall of her chest, the heat, oh god, the heat, sheets pushed all the way down, tangled in her long, sleep heavy legs. I turn to the left, the wrong side of the bed, as her breathing turns into the gentle snores of REM. I exhale in frustration and turn the other way. I can't sleep with her next to me, but the two weeks that she was away I couldn't do much else.
She Said:
I turn to my side, the right side, of the bed, edging toward the tipping point of sleep. And for a moment or two, dream awake. Ruminate. Over a string of pearly moments that brought me to this place. Silent snow falls in empty space. The bare winter and me, wrapped in layers of cold comfort. A letterbox flapping in the softly spoken wind. And a man, in midnight blue, travelling through, stands across a broken white lake, frozen in time.
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