A nap of exhaustion and I wake from a dream, get up to go to the bathroom. The dream had been an unrealistic one, wherein she welcomes all my attentions and desires.
But now, awake, I hear her sobbing on the other side of her closed bathroom door. I stand there unconscionably rapt at her almost erotic cries, as if they’re the distant call of a siren or undine luring some poor pitiful sailor to his doom.
The door opens and there she stands weeping – strange that her tears lend her a carnal seductiveness her quiet demeanor has never fully expressed to me yet. She’s angry to see me there.
“You…” she says in an accusing tone, before closing her mouth tight and biting her lower lip. I back off and step out on the porch; after a few minutes she joins me and apologizes, but for what I don’t know.
I am awed by her tears. Who are they for, exactly? I am still aroused but now is not the time.