Last night you woke frantic and wet from a dark sleep. Your eyes fixated on the white curtains fanning in the nighttime breeze. An eerie feeling was cast upon the room and I knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep again this night. Familiar with the routine, I put on my robe and made for the kitchen to get you a glass of water. Stopping at the door I looked back at you, your brown skin was reflecting moonlight like a poem. I tried to deny myself the pull of longing I felt for you, to be touched by you and to touch that skin. Your eyes came to rest on my face for a moment before falling down my body, uninterested in what may lie under the bulky robe.
I turned my feet on the soft wood floor and made for the cupboard which held all our glasses, a collection of places we’d been and shots we’d forced down. The tap released a jet of water and the icy coolness of it pricked my skin awake as it hit my wrist. I filled your glass, the one from San Clemente, and padded back into the room.
You drank like a desert in the middle of an overdue rain. I got in bed beside you and felt you settle, enough for me to release my weight onto the pillow and shut my eyes. I don’t think you’ll ever sleep again, after what happened. Not like you once did, traveling far away and returning rested. I shut my eyes and let slumber drift over me, taking me hostage until you would in the morning.