Memoir Monday

We were lying in bed, legs intertwined and arms flared across a deep purple sea of blankets and pillows. The dog had settled in near us, and he drifted in and out of sleep. The sun light fell through the window and brushed against us, as if keeping us alive.

“So we might not do it all then. . .” I asked, taking my fingers and placing them against his. His fingers dwarf my own. I bite his thumb and examine his flesh, the way the wrinkles build around his knuckles.

“I just can’t imagine sharing you”, he said, not looking at me, his eyes on the ceiling. “I am selfish. And I want to keep you all to myself.” He reached out, pulled me closer.

“You’re mine”. He said it nonchalantly, breathing the words into my hair where they rested on my curls. Later they would haunt me, falling from where they landed and wafting into my mind like the smell of perfume after a long day—equally my own and yet also from somewhere else.
It was the most romantic thing he had ever said.