Whenever it is Quiet

Whenever it is quiet, I go to a place, the same exact place every time. I am standing in front of a window; nearly naked, and staring at the lazily drizzling rain. In my hand is a mug of coffee that has gone a little too cool to be enjoyable, forgotten in favor of the oddly purpling sky and restless looking storm clouds. The little apartment is warm, as evidenced by the faint creaking and rattling of a very old furnace, and yet the very sight of what must be frigid droplets has me shivering. Perhaps I should’ve slipped on something to throw over the thin things I wore to bed, not because I get particularly hot in my sleep, but because I need to have as much of my skin available and accessible as possible for the faintest brush of skin against mine. As I’m pondering turning and grabbing my woolen, massive cardigan, the almost-too hot hands of my lover slid across my stomach, gently pressing my back up against a firm yet softly yielding chest, dry and chapped lips from deep slumber brushing right below my ear, so that my lover can speak while still being able to kiss my neck. 

“What are you thinking about?” 

  Voice still sleep-scratchy; had they noticed the absence of my body in our bed even mid slumber? Pulling themselves out of deliciously warm, fluffy blankets in order to ask me a question that no one’s ever cared enough to ask me before, a question that I find them asking all the time. I do not know the answer, admitting as much so quietly that they must struggle to hear me, but it doesn’t seem to bother nor surprise them. Half the time, I don’t seem to have the answers or any explanation as to what has me so lost inside my own hazy head. The easy dismissal would irritate others, make them sigh and remove their grounding touches and abandon me for the kitchen, but not this one. They know me too well, huffing a fondly exasperated little sigh into the column of my throat and press a final, open mouthed peck to the pale skin there before muttering:

“I’m sure it’ll come back to you. Could help you jog your memory?” 

   It’s a thinly veiled, and downright terrible, come on, but it has exactly the effect they were aiming for. I laugh, shoving at their chest, and putting on a show of being annoyed and exasperated, even though my chest fills fit to bursting and I know how terrible I am at concealing the smile on my lips and in my eyes. 

    Satisfied that I am no longer adrift at sea, they mumble something about making breakfast in the kitchen, and this time when they slip away from me, it doesn’t curdle in my gut like a loss. I know that they will come back to me, and when they get lost in their own sorrow or anger or frustration,I to them, time and time again. I look back out the window; the rain doesn’t seem so cold and melancholy anymore.