I wake to the slap of the screen door—Kent
leaving, and a glance at the clock beside my bed shows that it’s
not even six AM yet. I pull the blankets over my head and wish the
warmth that surrounds me wasn’t just my own. Some mornings I would
give anything to have the memory of his body lingering next to me.
But he goes to bed before I do, wakes up too damn early, tells me
that he likes a separate room because it keeps me from rousing him
when I turn in at night. The explanation doesn’t make my own bed
any less lonely.
I’m almost back to sleep when I hear tires
spin to a stop in front of the house, the truck door slam shut,
heavy boots on the porch and then he’s back inside, muttering to
himself because he’s forgotten something. Through half-closed eyes
I watch the hallway beyo
