Covet

After Making Love We Figure Out the Rest of the Day and Then Get the Hell Out of Bed

38 After Making Love We Figure Out the Rest of the Day and Then Get the Hell Out of Bed but let there be that heavy breathing or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house and he will wrench himself awake and make for it on the run —Galway Kinnell, “After Making Love We Hear Footsteps” Because it is already 7:26 and the alarm is about to sound for the third time, and a splinter of light under our door stains the floor, warning beacon that a child or man or something in between staggers in the hall, foot-drag heavy on the carpet, thick shoulder bumped against a corner. So we untangle, agree: I’ll meet the furnace guy between 1:00 and 3:00, and you’ll pick up the dry cleaning on your way home. We hear the bathroom door press shut, the latch click; he’s locked himself in again. What’s he do? I whisper. Better not to ask, you say and smile, keep your secret, instead exchange I love you, and I love you too, swing feet to floor as your flat hand 39 slaps the clock, shuts up rude banter, inane chatter reminding us of time, of cloud, of traffic pattern. I think, meat tonight, and red wine, bread; supper of bone and blood taken late, by candlelight. I pace to the adjacent door, listen for the thump and sigh of life, wonder at our son, so early, remote, protracted; silent, steaming in his solitary retreat. ...