Of course these nights are facts of life. You realize. They are not piteous. That’s not the point; They are marrow.

Here’s a complicated confession:  You don’t want what you had back, now. That’s not right for anyone. And you’re not ready for someone new in your bed; It is a good time to be alone.

And yet…there is an undeniable or unavoidable vacuum where One Was and Another Is Not. There are hours and exchanges and interludes and routines and machinations that one cannot do…

One cannot do.

This is just A night. One little tempest of a mood that will blow out by morning. It is not Defining. You know. You know. But here it is, still. This restless barefoot wandering through the house, this relentless suspicion that you’ve misplaced Something.

The clothes are not entirely dry, but you are out of quarters and so they will have to do.  Next door a man moves in with his bike pump and you watch his back move down the hallway, just to share an experience without having to say a word.  Without having to give anything at all.

The clothes aren’t dry, just as your one body does not expand to fill this entire bed. But you will crawl in anyway, with a stack of books - hoping one appeases your tenor. Knowing it won’t. Flipping from James to Gilbert to cheap lit to theology, equally dissatisfied as you are meant to be on a night like this.