Romance?

The windows were open all night so the air in the bedroom is fresh and has a crispy coolness that accentuates the warmth of the covers and her body lying next to mine.

She is on my left, always. I roll over to be near her and lay my arm over her sleeping body. I outline her beautiful collarbone with my finger and continue the line to her shoulder.

My head is pressed up against her and I can hear and feel her heart beating and her soft breathing.

She can sleep on her back, I can’t. I am an ugly sleeper. I can’t get a good night’s rest unless I am on my stomach with a pillow under one side, one knee drawn up to my head, and my mouth wide open to allow a puddle of drool to form so I can put my ear in it later.

But she sleeps on her back with her beautiful brunette hair splayed about in such a “I’m-sexy-without-even-trying” manner that I swear she arranges it herself before she falls asleep.

I continue to draw an imaginary line from her soft perfect shoulder down the velvety smooth skin of her arm. She works out almost every day and I can feel the subtle muscle definition in her arm, the slight rise and fall of the outside of her bicep.

I hear a faint little noise come from her lips. A sigh, a spoken breath? I love her lips. Lately she has been wearing lipstick more often. Lipstick is the greatest invention in the world. Forget the wheel. The only thing the wheel is good for is to get to the woman wearing the lipstick.

My fingers round the slight bend at her elbow and continue down her forearm. She is coming to the surface of consciousness. I can sense it. She isn’t awake, she isn’t moving, but she is leaving the depths of sleep and starting the journey to join me in the world of daytime. Is she breathing different? I can’t tell, but I feel her waking up.

My hand reaches hers. My fingers spread to match her fingers. I close my hand over hers and hold her hand for a moment. How many times in these 15 years of marriage have we held hands? How many times has this simple act represented our bond of love and friendship? How many times have our hands held each other in a passionate embrace?

I release my hold and turn her hand over. My fingers lightly graze her palm. I trace tiny and soft designs in her sensitive skin. So many nerve endings in the palm of the hand. Sensitive to the lightest touch, the feeling can linger far after the contact. I know I am sending little shivers of pleasure up her spine and to her brain.

I feel her awake now. She lies still while I continue to draw random lazy shapes across the lines of the palm.

She inhales a sharp breath through her nose. I anticipate the exhale that I know should come, the exhale that will part her lips. The exhale that will put power behind her sweet words of good morning and fill her voice with the lazy pleasure my touch has created.

Then she says, “Let’s paint the wall behind the couch green.”

Damn.