I sat down last night having set myself the task of writing for a minimum of 30 minutes even though I was exhausted. I intended to write a meditative description about how it felt to be exhausted, but my eyes rested on an old stain on the quilt covering the bed in my rented room and my imagination took off for roughly 250 words of fiction.
Hmmm. Looking at this in the light of day it doesn't seem like much, but it felt like quite the accomplishment in my exhausted state last night.
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I lie on top of the old patchwork quilt, the one stained with wine from our first night together. I run my finger over the faded brown spot, picturing how my glass tipped when he leaned in to kiss me. I had jumped back and the glass fell from my hand. I had jumped back even though we were sitting on my bed and the magnetic pull of sex was tangible. I had jumped back even though I wanted him. I wasn't accustomed to getting what I wanted.
I fumbled an apology and swung my legs over the side of the bed, intending to go get a towel to clean the spill, but he grabbed my wrist. There was no violence in the movement, merely a gentle insistence that I stay. He pulled me back. I offered no resistance. We fell across the quilt and the wine soaked into my blouse. I threw away the blouse. I kept the quilt.
Was that months ago? Years? How many nights? I lost count when I stopped believing one of them might be our last.
The air in our room is cold. No. Not "our." I correct myself. The air in my room is cold as I lie on top of my quilt, on top of my bed, no longer shared. It occurs to me that I should crawl under the covers but I can't move. I can only lie across the empty bed staring at the wine stain in silence.
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