A summer kind of love

I look at him, he who is sleeping in the crook of my arm. No, not because he likes it there. Because I do.

Those perfect eyelashes that fan around those perfect eyes.

The traffic outside is loud. So are the voices in my head. Both clear and cluttered.

The unbearable heat of summer. And a summer kind of love. Seasonal. Strong. Potent. Leaves you exhausted. Very like the way we made love.

The clumsy fumbling of our fingers in the dark, cursing hooks and eyes and buttons and belts. The frantic removing of our clothes and shoving them aside...

The scattered clothes around us, a testimonial to the love we made.

His breath touches those soft hairs on the side of my neck. I stroke his hair. I hope he's having a good dream.

His breathing labors and turns into snores.

I cannot sleep with someone who snores. But I never sleep. It’s always the other person who does. I wait to pretend waking up. To leave. I always do that. Before the other does. They always do. So I leave before them.

He can snore. I will be gone with the summer.

We'd laughed a great deal that day. He'd said I need to laugh more. Makes me look younger.

I fondly wipe those tiny droplets of sweat on his forehead. I also wipe the fondness aside.

That tiny mole on the corner of his lips. One kissed a thousand times by me. And a thousand women before me. A hundred later maybe.

I hate them all.

He opens his eyes to find me looking at him.

Smiling he says sleepily, "If our children have anything but brown eyes, you're gonna be in serious trouble lady."

I hug him and tuck him into where he belongs. For now.

Maybe I'll stay this time.