Clouds

Slowly pulled from his nightly coma, blinking, he lay still, identifying familiar shapes in the dark. The dresser piled with clothes, no longer a misshapen horse after all, the curtains pulled across the French doors that go out to the deck, just curtains, not sails. Bright numbers on the clock clicked from 3:20 to 3:21 as it all came flooding back. Throwing his legs over the side of the high four poster, pausing to consider the commitment it would take to actually stand and walk, he did. As he leaned deeply over the bed, recovering his glasses from under her pillow, he knew from the sound of the Geographic channel coming from the other room, that she was still up. Shuffling at first, slowly more mobile, he maneuvered down the three red concrete stairs, right foot, right foot, right foot, into the great room. She was lying on the couch buried under both Afghans, a cocoon of brown and light tan with two wide eyes exposed. As soon as he entered, he knew. When she said nothing, his suspicions were confirmed. She didn't snuggle up to him, showing no indication that he was even there. Better not to question, certainly not verbally, it was still too early for talk. After so many years together, the unpredictable clouds were nothing new, just a weather pattern that would eventually clear on its own.

Sitting back, sleep quickly came knocking once again like a roofie slipped into his water bottle. He reversed his trek in slow motion, enjoying the free fall back into the bed and the luxurious last moment of self awareness as he shifted to one side, welcoming the ether of sleep. After an interval, unmeasured, she crawled onto her side of he bed, inching slowly up to him, a warm puzzle piece, fitting perfectly into his mirror image, sharing unspoken warmth.