We're Awake

Rumpled sheets, warm from a night of sleep, envelope her body completely. It’s still dark, winter’s cold light of day has yet to seep through the blinds. He’s partial to a lighter covering, like a loin cloth of the comforter over just his privates, which leaves his chest, shoulders and legs open to the crisp night air. 

She stretches, flips from he back to her side and scoots her warmth toward him. Her hand reaches out, exploring, searching - yearning - through the folds of a top sheet, the two blankets they employ in the winter. 

“Where are you?” 

He slides a hip in her direction, brings the comforter his chest, opens the top sheet with an elbow and she envelopes him, legs into his, her chest on his, her head nestles into the soft space of his neck. 

He can still smell last night’s Tiger Balm on her shoulder, the place where he tried to rub away all the tensions of the week; the scent, he decides, is soothing, something between a Christmas candle and the crist-mint of menthol. He starts rubbing her tension spot all over and she mews, softly, and tosses a tangle of auburn hair across his face. It tickles his nose, and he tastes her conditioner, which reminds him of sunshine - bright citrus, warm spice. He lets a puff of air go, and she laughs, shakes her locks for effect. 

And his phone lights up the dim, the first notes - jarring guitar over pounding drums - of Reverend Horton Heat’s cover of the theme from “Jonny Quest” - his favorite childhood Saturday morning cartoon - fills the air.  

“Nine more minutes,” she says, tossing an arm across this chest, squeezing tight.