He was asleep in my lap. I was up too late. I'm always up too late. If he had his way, our bedtime would be 7:45 pm and we'd wake up by 5:00. If I had my way, the human body wouldn't need sleep at all, hummus would have no calories and he'd quit razzing me about watching Tivoed Oprahs.
I'd been going all day and hadn't really noticed I had him around. I knew his body was around. I heard him close cupboard doors and thump down the stairs. I'd put a plate of dinner in front of him and asked him about his day. But I hadn't noticed him yet. I ran out of Oprahs. Then I noticed him.
His hand was warm, dead weight as I lifted it to my face. I covered my eye with his palm and felt the heat press through my skin. I kissed his knuckles one by one. I could smell the citrus oil on his fingers from the Clementine orange he'd eaten earlier. I should have done this when he was awake.
What if I were alone? There would be no flannel clad spooning at night. No one to take a heavy purse from my arm and shamelessly carry it through the mall. No kiss after prayer. No soft white t-shirt to bury my face into. No armpit to lay in. Do you know how much I love the smell of his deodorant?
I love my Nicolas.
