Are you awake? I say.
He’s asleep, has been for over an hour. I hear his light snoring.
I stare into the darkness and rub my toes against his ankle, mentally computing how long until morning, how long until he’ll leave again. How long until he answers the question I keep posing to him. How long.
Are you awake? I say. His snoring intensifies.
I run my hand over his thigh and then over my own and then over his again. I touch my lips to his cheek. Are you awake? I say.
This time he grunts an unintelligible mrphhum. Then, more clearly, without opening his eyes: Everything okay?
I just can’t sleep, I say.
He turns over, wrapping me into his form, our bodies naked against each other, yin and yang, him sleeping, me not sleeping. Within seconds, he’s snoring again, me folded into his scent, under his weight.
Are you awake? I say, but he just holds me tighter, the sound of sleep in my ear.
I can only ask so many times.