Night vision
That night I couldn’t sleep, stirred up by a dream I forgot upon waking. From the bathroom came the litter box scratchings of Amber, her sad trill as she leapt down the hall. The cool air, the light of the moon, you barely stirring next to me, profile muted. The melancholy night noises. I tossed off the covers, wrapped myself in your flannel robe, and stared out the window. The full moon hung over the city, so juicy it looked ready to burst. It threw its light over the houses and parked cars and if I squinted your neighborhood almost looked beautiful.
Somewhere out there a man was going through a dumpster, clinking bottles into a cart like he was making overenthusiastic toasts at a party. It was eerie and familiar at the same time, the rattling of wheels, his mutterings, the explosion of each can as he crushed it, the crash of glass. A pair of women clicked on the sidewalk below, one lecturing the other, voice slightly slurred. "If he doesn't love you, what's he worth? Tell him to go to hell." You whispered my name.
Everything became clear to me, the way our relationship would deteriorate, not this year or the next, but when we were in too deep, how the things I love about you now, your hesitation, your unruly curls, your off use of slang, would be the first things to push me away. You would have your issues with me, too, the way I trampled conversations, left my clothes where I shed them, my increasing tendency to extend the cocktail hour past midnight.
In the now, you reached for me. I tossed off the robe and returned to your warmth. I let the lust last a little while longer, enough to get me through the night. In the morning the clarity of night vision would be mortared over by sunshine.
The photo, by Jane Underwood, was the prompt.
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