We got up too-early to go dance. It was worth it, but then all we wanted was a movie and food-in-bed and murder-porn lazy-time.

File Jan 25, 1 35 04 PM

With the velvety curtains drawn around our well-fed body heat, it finally got too stuffy by other people’s Sunday-night time-for-bed standards under the sloped-ceilings of our sleeping alcove. I whined for Delia to make me a bulls-eye egg NO WAIT can we take a walk?


Out in the dark in our pajamas, strolling the silent neighborhood … so many stars. My pj’s are a soft knit dress and thin fleece hoodie: no panties, no bra. Just shuffling along. It feels balmy compared to a couple weeks ago when the moon was full and the ground hard-frozen. She finds out her new nalgene does indeed glow.

We should be walking naked. Through gardens, not towards the obscenely-bright porch lights of people who go to bed so early. We should be walking naked with bare feet. RUNNING, even. Maybe we will someday, and then come back inside to dance. Or if it’s summer … stay outside to dance. All night long.

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There’s Orion. There’s The Big Dipper. There are billions and billions and billions of things I don’t know the names for. Just tiny little lights in darkness from where we’re moving, such tiny barely measurable distances together, walking at night towards another cold still building where we’ve danced before, and other people. Maybe for a hundred tiny little years.

HOLD MY HAND, I said. WE’RE MATES. MATED FOR LIFE.

We left the sometimes-lit straight roads for the darker curving trails. Little miniature hills roped with roots, rising and falling under our feet.


 

I can hear her downstairs, smell the buttered bread and egg she’s frying for me coming up the stairs.

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