CAROLINE BOCK
You wake me in the middle of the night again: burning up, slick to the touch, smelling of sweat and traces of lavender, once your primary scent. I don’t know how you can sleep. You roar, snoring, breathe out of your mouth. You scuffle with yourself in your old white bathrobe, and it flies open and your breasts, oh my God, I want to reach out and hold them up for you. I have buried myself in those breasts. I have even tasted milk from those breasts just to see what it was like — and it was watery, and laced with garlic you said was from the pizza we had shared. You also claimed that our son didn’t care if you tasted of garlic. I wasn’t sure whether to believe you, even though you said it like so many things, with absolute confidence. But if I touch you now and wake you — I won’t. You say you never sleep through the night anymore. Still, it’s me who always seems to be staring into the dark, debating whether I should go into the guest room and see if I can fall asleep on that lumpy bed, between those scratchy new sheets. I hate to sleep alone, but I have to sleep too. If I nudge you, you might turn over at least. But before I can manoeuver my arm, you mumble in your sleep. I hold my breath, listen. I want your words to be some insight into you, or us. Sometimes I don’t understand how I got here in this king-size bed next to you. But it’s your sister’s name and you’re yelling at her to get out. Get out. We’ve been married how many years? Thirty this June. And in your sleep you are still fourteen or fifteen fighting with your kid sister. I sigh and tuck my cold hands between my legs, feeling out of time, neither young nor old, as if I will exist only for this moment and then disappear. I will leave. Get something to drink. Water. Check the score on the game. Check e-mail. Soon enough, you fall quiet. Your hair, damp and curled, wilds onto my pillow. You ask me all the time if I see any grey and I swear every time I see none. I will never admit that you’ve gained weight either. All I know is that your nipples are the size of berries, as large as mulberries, and the moon is streaking through the window and I can’t help myself. With the tip of my tongue, I taste them and they are salty and warm and familiar and good, and I know I will be here when you wake.