Last Night

I dug up an old notebook looking for a story that I started more than a year ago because I somehow, for some reason, felt that I could do something with it now. The notebook I pulled out was the wrong one, but it did have the handwritten version of Reasoning in it and almost a complete erotic story about fishing (which was/is pretty damned good if I must say so myself) and some other tidbits and doodles.

At the table flipping through the notebook and drinking wine, I actually read a passage that made me cry. And in true Tenille fashion, I left the thing at home so I can’t even print here exactly what it was… but anyhoo…

I looked around in some kitchen drawers for the other notebook with the other story, the one that I was originally looking for. Didn’t feel like going deeper into the closet though I’m fairly certain that’s where it is…

The rustling and fussing would have made too much noise. Someone might have lifted his head and looked at me, but of course, not said a word.

I refilled my wine glass before heading to bed. No television, just darkness and silence. I wrapped myself in a cocoon of comforters and quilts and apparently drifted off to sleep.

Quiet. Not even a snore or a shift in position.

Could have been home all alone for all I knew. Was all alone as long as my eyes were closed.

Except I wasn’t.

And I wasn’t particularly sleepy or wishing for a quiet evening. But that was what I got.

I’m pretty sure I will always be amazed at the fact that I can feel absolutely alone with someone living and breathing, laying right there next to me.

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