I like to do push ups while I wait for the toast to pop. Fit in a few planks and some dips while the water boils. It’s become a nightly routine. Tight muscles. Toast. Water.
“Damn, it’s hot.” She yells across at me.
New wrinkles are writing themselves beneath my eyes. My smile won’t quit. Each minute makes me feel alive.
I can’t tell whether it’s lotion or sweat that is making my legs look so glazed. Maybe both. I’m reminded of that beach on the Island. Where the sun melted me. And the salt water licked the dust from my bronze feet.
The rain makes me pale. Oh well. Not much to be done. She’s right though. It is hot.
My feet find their way to the door. I turn and wave, to no one in particular. Merely tracing my hand through the air feels comforting.
She looks up. Cheeks swollen like misshapen muppets. Our smiles return and laughter silently seeps from our wrinkles.
The toast is up. Muscles happy.
If only I could feel the satisfaction from having a pair of strong hands wrap themselves around my shoulders, checking the integrity of my claims. There’s nothing I want more right now. To be held by strong hands. To sit in contented silence, warmth approaching slowly.
I’d like it if you read out loud to me. I’d like it a lot.