Indian Summer   

When he sleeps, the same thick lock of hair continually falls in his eyes. She reaches over and gently pushes it aside, but it just drifts down again. He smiles a little and she thinks he must be dreaming of something good. His lips part and he sighs faintly as he adjusts his position. Even unconscious, he always makes sure that at least one part of him is touching one part of her. His arm drapes across her hip; or his chest presses against her back; or his knee pushes between hers.

Sometimes it’s only their hands. More than once, she’s woken up in the middle of a muggy Indian summer night, when they’ve left space and air between them, to find their fingers intertwined. It’s like they’re walking down a street, holding hands.

She loves that. Just holding his hand. Now she can.