Something in Nothing

I spent a week laying around Elle's apartment painting and drinking and watching her undress and reading a book of short stories I couldn't seem to finish. It was a small apartment in the top of a large house, tucked into the corner. There was an unnecessary drop ceiling and whomever had been maintaining it before Elle hadn't. I puttered around and would occasionally fix small things. Tack down coaxial. Glue the thermostat back together. Get the bathroom door back on it's track (although I had broken it off in the first place). Elle would say thank you and look up at me almost as though I had given a kidney to her father and I was sad to understand what that meant. I went about my business and we bought another case of cheap beer and another two bottles of wine. 

It was a movie I hadn't watched in almost a decade and it wasn't as good as I had remembered, but we were watching it and her head was on my chest and my fingers ran slow through her hair, over, over, over. She squirmed a bit during the bloodier sections and made small sounds of surprise or repulsion every once in awhile and we joked to each other about some of the poor writing, or facial expressions, or whatever came to mind. It was easy and it was fun and it was nice.

The bedroom was dark and cool and the bed was sanctuary where we pulled close and in the dark and over the sound of the small fan at the foot of the bed, whispered to each other things normally better left unsaid but there, under blankets and pressed close, better said. Hand on her skin, above her hip, below her ribs and gripping and I kissed her. Pulled slow away and in the dim light from the living room could see her eyes, dark and wide, wrapping her sight around me, reaching and digging for something. Truth, or hope, or light, I couldn't tell. Something more and I hoped it was there.

Morning and I dug through her sparse cabinets looking for a pan to cook omelettes in. There was one in the sink and I cleaned it and turned on the gas stove, dropped a chunk of butter in and prepped the eggs. As the eggs cooked and Elle slept in the other room I finished the rest of the dishes, poured a glass of wine and listened to the radio. Songs I didn't care for, but didn't hate so I let it play and poured another glass and dropped the two omelettes onto plates and brought them into the bedroom. Elle, still sleeping and without blankets was laying mostly straight in a tank top and I followed the contours and set the plates down on the nightstand and from her ankles to her calves, to her thighs, to her back, and neck kissed upward and on her neck she moaned and rolled a bit with eyes open and looked into me. "Good morning," I said. "I made eggs." She wrapped an arm around me, heavy with night, and kissed me. "Wonderful," she said. "You." Pulled her into me and laid down and closed my eyes, and she did too and the eggs went cold and I couldn't have felt better about it.

Sometimes the eggs go cold, and sometimes you say more than you should, and sometimes you have to fix the little things. But it can be easy, and fun, and nice.