Sometimes, what isn't said out loud between two people can be more important than what is.
He knew what it was to wake up next to an unfamiliar face. She lay there, dark hair drowning the pillow in her cool dark smell. The pastel flannel caress of sheets accent her soft, supple skin, exaggerating the lazy beauty of this other in his bed.
She rolls over, long dark hair weaving itself over her face. She is not interested in brushing it from her face. Climbing down the steps from the loft, wearing one of his large shirts as a nightgown, she eases herself onto the couch. She gazes intently out the window, drawing a long, thoughtful drag from her cigarette. Morning. The city is still asleep, and the lights from the love motel across the street have let themselves fade out knowing that they need no longer be artificially illuminated.
Pressing his chin on the rail of the loft, he gazes down at this woman. Yet unable to rouse himself from bed he sleepily surveys the scene, head held up by his chinrest. His first words require dedicated effort. His chin is unable to drop; rather his entire head must be lifted in order to force language from his mouth. “What are you thinking?”
She continues staring out the window at the bleak gray of morning, so enraptured that she must be wrestling with intense thought. “Nothing”
Her response sets thoughts churning, futile attempts at deciphering meaning from her evasive response.
Memories roll through the viewing portal of his mind as he searches for meaning in this language. Images of an intoxicated evening. He returned to his house with this woman. Mellow jazz wound its way out of speakers perched on a wooden desk. Cool white wine opened, poured into glasses. Gaping, empty, they are quickly filled with the potent liquid for fear that they might say something, might reveal some secret hiding in that half dark room.