The Streetlights

Originally/alternatively entitled "The Lovers" (or "The Darkness." Basically, I'm indecisive.)

 

                We live in a second-floor apartment above a fruit market in the sketchy part of town where you can’t leave the building at night without thinking there’s at least a chance you’ll be stabbed.  Now that she’s working, we keep talking about getting a condo by the lake, but I’m hesitant to leave this ugly little hovel because of the long hours I put in getting comfortable here.  I walk up the stairs and enter quietly without turning on the lights.  I know where everything is.  With my back to the door, my shoes go on the mat to my right, my keys on the desk to my left.  I hang my jacket on the coat rack just beside that and make my way past it, sweeping my hand along the kitchen counter on my way to the bedroom.  I slowly, silently, turn the knob and gently push the door open just wide enough to stumble through.

                The near concrete darkness of that side of the room is broken for an instant when I enter and I see her there already in bed, a horizontal shape in the night.  I creep around to my side of the bed and sit.  She shifts her weight and moans softly, sleepily acknowledging my presence.  “Hrm.”

                I stand by the window and let my eyes adjust so I can discern her form.  From this angle, I see more, her bare shoulder and neck, the curve of her breast under the comforter. The way her one arm sleepily hangs just above her head in unconscious surrender, resting the back of her hand against the headboard.  Just outside the window is a streetlight that shines into our window and casts a soft orange gleam over the room.  When I try to sleep, it distracts me, but she’s said she likes the way it watches over us.  In this light, she seems to glow softly.  It makes her skin look so soft and so warm.

                Leaving my shirt and pants on the floor, I try to slip under the covers unnoticed.  For a moment I seem to succeed.  I can’t help but wrap myself around her, and this disturbs her.

                “You’re drunk,” she says.

                “No, no,” I whisper, “I’m buzzed.  I took a cab home.  I’m not drunk, though.  Go back to sleep.”

                “I wish you hadn’t gone out tonight,” she says, not even turning over or opening her eyes.  “My mother came over and I couldn’t get her to leave.”

                “Is that my fault?”

                “Hrm,” she moaned again, “Let’s not do this.”

                She shifts away from me, plants her feet on the floor and walks over to the washroom.

                The second she walks over to the bathroom and flicks on that light, the spell is broken.  She’s no longer beautiful and mysterious, just pretty and familiar.  In her flannel pyjama bottoms and tank top, she leans over the sink and begins to brush her teeth.  I can hear the echoing of bristles running across enamel, toothpaste sloshing around her gums and lips.  I turn over and watch her elbow gyrating, moving her shoulders, jaw and breasts along with it.  She puts the toothbrush down and I roll back on my side and close my eyes, clenching my teeth as I hear her hork, spit, and fill the cup for a rinse.

                Behind me, she flicks the light off and I hear her soft footsteps back to the bed, feel her move the covers and climb in.

                “Goodnight,” she whispers.

                “Goodnight,” I grumble.  I look up at the streetlight and point my finger at it like a gun to shoot it out and leave me in darkness with her.