Pictures Of Us

There was nothing in particular to watch, but neither of us minded. I flipped channels aimlessly, landing here or there for a few minutes, but what we were both enjoying was our physical proximity. We were curled into one end of the sofa, his arm around me, my head nestled into his shoulder, our hipbones knocking together when either of us shifted. The window over the sofa was open, and the soft night air carried the fragrance of fresh-cut grass and wisteria. For the first time that day, I was content, or nearly so.

We cleaned up the kitchen when Emma took herself off to bed, blowing kisses over the banister and reminding me she needed lunch money for tomorrow. When the dishwasher rumbled to life and Michael had shut off the lights, we went upstairs together, but we didn’t go right to sleep. I slipped into bed after cracking the window to let the breeze wash through the room, and when Michael joined me, I reached for him. I was naked under the sheet, and he fit himself against me, his hard, lean length so familiar, so beloved. I let my body speak to him again that night, and he answered me, every touch tender, reassuring and full of love. It’s all right, his body said. I love you. I won’t hurt you. We’re together here, and forever. What I couldn’t hear was how he felt about having a son. The boy we’d never had. Someone he could talk baseball and beer with, another male in the small circle of our family, where Emma and I had him outnumbered. What I wouldn’t know, unless I asked him, was if he was actually happy about this news.

I fell asleep holding his hand, staring at the pale, fat moon through the maple outside the window, hoping that he had heard I love you and We’re together when I touched him, too.