It's late. The light skips yellow across the wood floor and catches on my fingers, my bare feet. For the past hour, the window has been nothing but a dark mirror, but as I watch, the night splits down the middle to admit headlights. A car drives slowly by and realize I have been waiting breathlessly for it to stop.
I fold one leg beneath the other and sit, still and quiet. You spelled it out so clearly, I am A and you are B and the path was too dark between the two. I listened and waited and you did not answer. I told you it was foolish, but I am not a fool and the line fell silent between us. That night I dreamt of your voice.
This is the price of pleasure. Now I have silence, the comfort of clean linens and a wool sweater. Because I can, I walk outside and I do not think of you.
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