And Then You Arrived

by Isabelle Wedin

 The sun began to set and then you arrived,
but from here on the floor,
it fluttered in behind you
as you crossed the window,
like a pink cape tied
to the straps of your dress.
 
You didn't flick on the light
or pull shut the blinds, but
grabbed the pillows from the couch,
gave one to me,
and kept one for yourself.
 
We held hands and whispered
as we watched the last light
slide away behind the tops of the trees.
You and the twilight
wrapped around me.
Our breathing slowed until
you weren't listening and neither was I.
 
I woke up first,
stiff and parched,
and felt my way to the kitchen.
I drank one glass greedily and filled it
again from the faucet.
When it slipped and
shattered on the tile, my bare feet wet
and frozen in place,
you were there in the doorway,
one hand on the switch, your other
holding our shoes.
 
I cursed, you laughed, and we made breakfast.
We had our eggs and coffee,
you still in your dress, me
in my pajamas and sneakers,
and then sat together on the couch.
I leaned over to put my head on your shoulder
and noticed the sun had come up.