Sighting
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When we have a good tussle (lights on), we both sleep better.
Afterward, I always drift into a deep, drunken sleep that I wouldn't wake from willingly. She, on the other hand, is always up and down the carpeted stairs adjusting things we knocked over or planning some grandiose scheme for a better life by way of imagined parlor or botanical garden. It's always her who sees a woman corner-eyed passing through the unlit kitchen or silhouetted in porch light just to be gone a moment later. She'll wake me in a stupor claiming she saw a lady with a face likened to a clay bust that was never finished. That is all nonsense, of course, just her night-follies. She harbors a deep suspicion of my youth and remembers things I scarcely recall as more than flirts and teases. I'll hear a shriek; I'll go to her. There she'll stand weak-kneed pointing at nothing down the hallway. We’ll discuss it for too long (lights off), and I’ll be up till the birds caw. Glancing at a coat or chair-back like these things are really some lady just watching me. Staring at me with a satisfied look on her non-face knowing that her work is finished here. |