A soft ringing: the phone, somewhere under the blanket. Forget it.
Ten minutes later, it rings again. She squirms, finds it grazing her thigh, shyly vibrating.
It’s him, both him. It falls silent as she looks at it, thankfully.
He hasn’t called in days; she has sallied forth every day
Dressed to meet him by accident. She sees in him
Past lovers, her pattern. She feels she knows him,
Two brief conversations to the contrary failing to withstand.
This will be all of them gone right.
Or… at least she knows what she's getting into.
Or who.
But this afternoon, with the warm sunlight trapped in her doubly reinforced windows;
The wind of a carefree rebuff in her sails, making the leaves and shadows jump;
The warmth of her intense body sliding against soft sheets
And the drowsiness after; the phone knows it doesn’t need answering.
There’s no call to arms more potent;
Sweat shining, her depths in paroxysms
Of laughter.
