by Cooper Austin
(10/10/01)
Pretending he is still asleep, he enjoys her morning ritual. The way, before her run, she bites her bottom lip as she stares out the window, thinking about the day ahead. The way she stretches, naked, checking herself out in the mirror, never happy enough, tiny groans of frustration. The way she tries not to make too much noise and disturb his sleep as she opens and closes drawers. The way she grinds the hazelnut coffee beans, three quick pulses, never more, pouring the water into the coffee maker, so it will be ready when she gets back. The way she double-knots her sneakers, then shuts the door quietly behind her.
Drowsy and hard, he anticipates her return, picturing her running around the city streets, steady breath and sweat. A quickening heartbeat. Sometimes he worries, thinks danger is waiting for her. Temptations of the lonely who look down from their windows. He thinks she plays chance with rape. Once, when they were both well beyond drunk, she told him she had a rape fantasy, and so they pretended. He hid in the closet and she walked into the bedroom, acting unaware. He grabbed her from behind, threw her on the bed, tore her clothes off, forced her legs apart, put his hand over her mouth, fucked her hard and quick. They laughed about it for the next couple of days, but they never tried it again.
The water saturates through the grounds, aroma spreads. A pearly drop of semen rises. When she walks back into the apartment, he opens his eyes slightly as she pulls her shorts down, pulls her shirt off, then gets on top of him, saying, Time to wake up, sleepyhead. She fucks him until he comes inside her, then straddles him until he is soft. It is the way she puts on her red plaid robe, ties it twice, then pours two cups of coffee. It is the way they do not have to talk during that first early hour. It is the way they begin the day in silence, having already spoken in another language.
