He wrapped his warm arms around my torso again, turned the light off, and went back to sleep.
His arms around my chest feel like armor.
I counted backwards in my head from one hundred until I drifted off like a log on a river, slowly and drunkenly falling asleep in a current down the navy night. I dreamt of bathroom fixtures. I tried to take a bath but the entire shower was filled with jutting metal accessories for holding razorblades and soaps and toothbrushes. I tried to angle my body to fit in the tub, to wet my hair, but there were too many metallic fixtures. They took over the walls, forcing me into awkward positions, folding myself into a corner surrounded by dull silver brackets caked with mildew and soap scum.
I dreamt I was pregnant.
I woke up in a drugged panic that I was forty and had aged into tragic housewife character in a Yates novel.
I traced my stomach with my left hand while he slept soundly. It was flat.