.

I am awake, but brain and body still too heavy to rise. It is the kind of state in which I can contemplate getting up for an hour, but never really move.

I hear quiet breath and I see Shane. She has now sprawled across half the bed, relaxed and evenly slowly breathing. She must be warmer, and Im glad I gave her at least some comfort.

I contemplate her dangerous, jagged beauty for a second, but I cant keep my eyes open.

I drift back under, breathing deep. I feel a soft hand in mine. She curls her fingers loosely around mine and squeezes.

.

When I wake up it’s late afternoon. I’ve slept, but never gone deep enough to lose the knowledge that she is here with me. I never surrendered fully because I expected that when I woke she’d be gone. But she’s still here.

I don’t know why she’s sleeping in the middle of the afternoon, but I don’t think she’s awakened once, all this time. I close my eyes and listen to her breathing, barely audible.

I realize that I love to watch her sleep. It’s the highest form of trust, and after these hellish days, that’s balm to my guilty heart. I try to imagine her as a child, face softer with youth, clinging limply to a parent or a caregiver, head resting on their shoulder, as floppy in sleep as a Dali watch. The image doesn’t come easily. Still, I watch her.

Then when it starts to feel like an intrusion, I stretch and roll over. Her fingers have untangled from mine, and they are resting on my sheets. I stare at their spare, simple anatomy for a second, thinking about bones and flesh and physiology.

I realize that she is sighing deeply, moving and stretching. Her eyes are open, on mine. She stretches, arching back and yawning like a cat.

“Hey,” she says, her voice heavy and deep with sleep. She rolls over onto her side, facing me, and closes her eyes again.

“Hey,” I say, and to my dismay it comes out as a whisper.

The space between is utterly silent for a few seconds. I lie, warm in the soft linen quiet of the afternoon.