Until the Morning

by Emily McPhillips

He switches sides with me so that he is walking along the side of the pavement closest to the road.  His manners are immaculate, and he would almost be an old fashioned gentleman if it wasn’t for the slack and comfortable way he dressed.  A faded green tee-shirt with a picture of The Clash, a tee-shirt he bought ten-years-ago when he was fifteen.  I am jealous of all the times he has pushed his head through its neckline, jealous of the girl he was with when he bought it from that shopping mall back in his hometown, jealous of her lustrous black hair that cascaded down her back. 

We’re holding hands as we walk towards our bus-stop.  My hand feels safe in the pit of his grasp; I feel it agreeing with him, sharing and being kind.  The arms of my jacket fall short of my wrists and the faint hairs on my arm stand-on-end.  They march into the sleeve of his coat and they take their leave here until the bus arrives and we’re sat down leaning into each other, then they spill from his cuff and nestle back along the curve of my wrist and lie down flat.

I fall asleep on his bed whilst he is in the shower.  He left the small lamp on and hoped I’d still be awake when he came back.  My book is next to me, opened and spread out over the covers.  He picks it up; unsure of which page I want bookmarked, and he tries to leave it as best as he found it, on the small bedside table.  He undresses carefully, hanging his clothes up in his wardrobe, and dresses for bed.  He entreats me to sleep beneath the covers.  I am coaxed by his fluid movements.  Our bodies are close and experiencing something completely normal.  I can hear nasal whistling as he breathes; it plays like an amplified song and weakens me to a frozen stupor.  In this room I am craving to know nothing but the parts of him that will become known to me.  Cold toes finding warmth between the smoothness of my recently shaven legs.  His arms sealed around me until I wake.

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