A hot tin roof

The air is light, and carries the sound of cicadas. The just-turned-out fluorescent light in the bathroom glows surreally. Outside, through the dust on the flyscreen, light is diffused indoors.

The heat of your body is disturbing as I lay down beside you. From behind, my hand moves to your chest, my palm aware of your beating heart. Over the next few minutes, our body temperatures equalise as the tin roof creaks and groans. Lying with my lips resting on your back, our breath falls in sync and I drift into your slumber.

We occasionally meet in sleep, an impression of you in the impulses of my mind and soul. Maybe that’s not you though. Maybe you are the oddly dressed schoolgirl, or the growling lion, or the colour blue that recurs within a scene of an abandoned house my soul explores. The house is my security. The abandonment is my giving up to you. The blue, a colour that’s with me constantly in my waking life – the clothes I wear, the sea, the sky.

A possum’s steps outside cause you to stir. ‘Roll over.’ And your hand clasps at my heart, fingertips burrowing into the hair of my chest. One last complaint from the roof as sleep envelopes you again, and the tiniest vocalisation escapes you, punctuated by the squeeze of your hand.

© 2009