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Your face is glowing in the light of the restaurant next door, neon red shining on your cheeks. It's just past the devil's hour. We've been awake since this morning, since the rehearsal and the show, and now you sit with me on the bed with the curtains open. The slow hum of cars passes the hotel.
I mourn the night, which will soon lighten to day. I'll have to stand above you to shake you awake. I'll have to listen to Peter's yelling behind the hotel room door as you dress and frown my waking you.
My head heavies. I drop it into my hands.
"What?" You ask. There's a starkness to you sometimes, one that aches my spine.
"Just feeling sad," I respond, knowing you have heard this phrase many times from me. "I wish I lived with you in Plumpton, in the countryside."
The smoke from your crumpled cigarette wafts over me like a storm cloud. "We could lounge all day in the sun."
I lift myself to gaze at you. You are slanted back on the pillows with your arms crossed over your stomach. Your dark hair falls in curls at your shoulders.
A whine rises in my throat. "But that's only a fantasy. You'll work in your studio all day. I'll be lonely without you."
"I won't work all day, love. You don't want me to ferment like a fallen apple, do you?" Tease in your tone. My hips twinge.
I crawl toward you, eager for you. My night dress hangs between my thighs and you reach down to twirl the hem between your fingers. I reach your face and kiss you light.
"You have the softest lips," I say. "No, I wouldn't let you ferment. But after you finish the day and all is done, I'd have to have you to myself."
Your fingers find mine, long and capable and warm, and you agree, "Of course."
"During the day, I'll clean the house and work in the yard. And cook and go for walks. And then in the night we'll sip tea and talk and talk and talk."
A smile lifts your face. The shadows change. "And what of your history degree?" You ask.
"Hmmm. I'll put it to good use. I'll research Plumpton. I'll write a book."
"So we will work most of the day and spend the nights in each other's arms?"
"Yes," I affirm. My mind hovers for a moment before I land on the right topic. "I loved your face the first time I saw it. You have a regal face: eyes the color of nature, beautiful cheeks, a gentle mouth, and my favorite, your dark brows." I run my thumb over your brow bone for emphasis.
You yield and shut your eyes. "You're the first to compliment my eyebrows," you chuckle with an embarrassed breath.
"It's true. Lovely brows." I find the line of worry between them and attempt to smooth it. "Like Atlas. The weight of it all on the back of your neck. . . You deserve a break. Tell Peter to cut the tour short."
"I can't do that, darling." You open your eyes again, bright from the streetlamps, and shake your head.
"Yes, I know. But if I could, I'd take that pressure from you." I search your face and the beauty within it that I know.
"Thank you," you murmur. Your expression calms. You gesture me to your side. Your breathing is steady, like music.
The neon light colors the wall in red. My lids fall. I lull asleep.
