Midwinter
After, with their underwear still tangled in the top sheet, or just waking in winter, the stunned trees thrusting up their arms, he was always the first to leave the bed. Rising, he’d put on coffee. Or coming back, she’d pull him toward her with her legs wrapped around his waist, and when they fought he’d say, “Hey,” trying to reach her, and she’d say, “Hey,” and turn away, and a whole day could pass in silence, the vista of the cold city through the windows, voices and the smell of coffee rising from the flat below, their toothbrushes neck to neck inside their cup, resting against each other like someone whispering in someone’s ear. “Still friends?” he’d ask, in the middle of the night, when he would wake, and she’d move closer, and he’d move closer, and she would wake, the light in the room from the crescent of the moon moving somewhere in the sky high above them, carrying its dark half in its arms. Source link
