The apartment is colder than it is outside. I turn up the thermostat, and the heater comes humming to life. I put my keys on the kitchen counter and wash my hands in the sink. The faucet drips after I shut the water off.
In the bedroom, Marie has kicked the covers to the floor, and she is lying on the bare mattress, black mascara seashells on her pillowcase. I want to cover her up, but she’s so exposed, with her hips and thighs soft and so not like a little girl’s, too soft not to touch. And when I touch her, she is cold, and I want to touch her until she’s warm again, until she touches me again, until she laughs and smiles again. Until she paints again. Until she is she and I am me again. Picking up the covers, I lay them over her, and in her sleep she stretches and curls into them. I lie down next to her, and she is sadder and more gorgeous than I remember, even as she sleeps.
“I will make things better for us, Marie,” I say.
Quietly, I undress for bed.
