My husband calls

My husband calls me during his lunch break to find out how I am. I am well, I say with a modicum of truth, and begin the conversational dance of pretending that I am not on the brink of letting it all go and allowing obesity and a disregard for hygiene to run rampant, to fester like puss in a neglected sore. He is goodness though, and the best part of this life.

Every morning I wake before him. His body is creamy and I fold my limbs into his batter like egg whites in a cake. I look at his back, mapping made-up star constellations and whatever patterns come to me in those hidden hours.

He smells like him. There is no comparison to this scent because it is so uniquely his musk and sweat and sweetly yumminess. He twitches occasionally and I hold on tightly as his slumber attempts to take him away. He could float up into the sky, on a hot air balloon of cloudy dreams, if I don’t press him to me. I curl my feet to hook into his and we move our appendages together in an unsung rhythm. These quiet communications are my favourite moments in the day. They rub me the right way.

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