Lazy

There’s lazy and then there’s me, darling. There’s the way you sit upright when we talk to one another and I lean back, my chin out, my shoulder rolled clockwise, slack jawed and on my haunches.

“That’s lazy,” you say. “That’s the laziest thing I’ve ever see you do.” You say this as you run your thumb up the arch of my foot and wait for my smile to expand and collapse, my leg to jerk forward and catch between your knees.

“I’m not,” I say, coyly.

“You’re the laziest.” And with a kiss you are on top of me, and it’s true that I’m lazy, that I lie there for extended amounts of time and let your lips crawl on my skin, on my neck, on my impossible collarbone. It’s true I lie there, my eyelids fluttering, like some paraplegic movie star.

“I’m not.”

“The only thing lazier than you are the bedsheets.” You grab for my hair and kiss my eyelids. I stay on the pillow. I stay in first position, my knees shifted only slightly apart, unsure of what you mean by lazy.

“I don’t know what you mean by lazy.”