From the Vaults: In the Heat of the Night

Originally written sometime in 2005

Twelve-thirty in the morning, and it’s still over ninety degrees outside, the night air calm as death and twice as deep. I’m wearing as little as possible – a strappy red tank top and matching panties – and my hair is pulled up into a messy pony tail-knot-thing on the top of my head. Ugly, but effective, it keeps my hair off my neck at least. I’m trying to read, but it’s too hot to focus, so I just sit in bed and watch the dog sleeping on the floor.

The phone rings, and I answer it in a voice laced with sex, “Hey handsome. Coming home soon?”

The voice on the other end, my husband, my lover, laughs softly, and tells me he’s on the way. “Wait for me in bed,” he says, “I’m ten minutes from home.” I smile into the phone, and say I will.

He doesn’t speak a word to me, when he comes into the bedroom, just strips in the dim light from the stars and the street lamps. He kisses my lips, my neck, then tugs at my shirt. Minutes, and several more pieces of clothing, later, we’re moving together to the beat of the music from the bar down the street.

An hour later, we’re both laying in the bed, sweaty, sated, and sleepy. He whispers something about it being really good, and then, louder, murmurs, “Love you, baby,” and rolls over.

I lie there in the bed and listen to the sound of his breathing and the dogs, mingling in the darkness. I close my eyes, then open them, and stare at the moon, shining through the frame formed by the patio doors. Moonlight always seems so cool and serene, that for a moment I wish I could reach out and capture the glow, bathe in it.

Contemplating this, I fall asleep, or at least, I think I do, because the next time I look at the clock it’s blinking 6:00 in insistant red digits, and the air is, if not cooler, at least not as thick.