10: February 2016 #13 - And Then You Arrived
Authored by Isabelle Wedin
And Then You Arrived
The sun began to set and then you arrived, but from here on the floor, it fluttered in behind you as you crossed the window, like a pink cape tied to the straps of your dress. You didn't flick on the light or pull shut the blinds, but grabbed the pillows from the couch, gave one to me, and kept one for yourself. We held hands and whispered as we watched the last light slide away behind the tops of the trees. You and the twilight wrapped around me. Our breathing slowed until you weren't listening and neither was I. I woke up first, stiff and parched, and felt my way to the kitchen. I drank one glass greedily and filled it again from the faucet. When it slipped and shattered on the tile, my bare feet wet and frozen in place, you were there in the doorway, one hand on the switch, your other holding our shoes. I cursed, you laughed, and we made breakfast. We had our eggs and coffee, you still in your dress, me in my pajamas and sneakers, and then sat together on the couch. I leaned over to put my head on your shoulder and noticed the sun had come up.