I love listening to her sleep. Watching television last night, lying on her bedroom floor while she cocooned herself in her comforter, I listened to her snore softly, gently. The room filled with home.
It filled with the evening that came before our settling down in front of the television.
I watched the screen, seeing the pier. The evening closing to open to night. The water licking the sides of the docked boats causing their moorings' click-clank to cast a melancholy aura to the air.
We sat on cold cement, watching a woman feed seagulls. Listening to the fog horns in the distance. Gasping at the size of a cargo ship--the hull shrinking us more efficiently than the sky ever could (the sky is less harsh).
We talked about us. Wanting this. Just this. And how perfect it is. And how easy it is.
Things this easy are not supposed to be real.
But sitting above her on the concrete wall, looking at the blueness of her eyes through her dark, long eyelashes, I couldn't see anything else. She moved up to kiss me. To bring her desire closer, making the realness of it bold against the sun setting behind her over the Boston skyline.
In purples, blues, pinks, and golds, we walked, hand-in-hand, away from the ocean into the sky.