Between her and the blankets would be the expanse of his arm. Bent at the elbows with his hands underneath the warmth of her. Above her, his other arm contains her and if his hands are seen they hold pieces of her. Her hair, her flesh, her deeper breathing. From the coarseness of his thumbs he strokes the skin on the sharpness of her cheekbones.
Within this world of her and the blankets, nights were too short. Every time they would come here, even through the winters and summers of their arguments they always made time for that futon with the burnt out pink laid atop the padded square. Those spaces next to each other had to be filled and those hands had to be tangled to the fingers. Her palm had to stroke his collarbone till he would shiver into her. He had to to pull her from the small of her back as she sighed somewhere far off and dizzying. He would watch her till weak light eased itself through the shadow of her tower block. She would be caught in the hunger of his stare and he knew these nights became too short.
Ruyji. Hey. Ruyji.
I'm here.
I know.
Okay taiga. Okay.
He coiled her tighter to him. He closed his eyes and somewhere in the dimmness behind his eyelids there was suddenly a warmer more solid world in it. It was because above his chest were those fingers that painted circles on his skin. Now in his palm was the softness of her hair. His palm would trail through all of it while her hands found his face. Before they could speak he kissed her and would rise to the kitchen.
Of course they seemed to talk less. The landlady seemed to find less screams tumbling towards her. The endless arguments seemed to have found an end. Yet in their private quiet they clung to each other. Between his hands on her thigh and her head on his chest they speak a noiseless language.
Behind him she would roll into the sheets as he would rise. Except for her eyes. They would poke out through the bedding and would track him as he bought his kitchen to order.
No words would be spoken by Ruji, but in his own way he talks. It was in his care and his vigilance. He would cook pork with rice with the right texture and the right temperature. He would ease in sweet tea with a small amount of juice. He would reach over to take her chin and press his lips against hers. In a small silence he would put her inside all of his rituals, all of his chores and all of his thoughts. Those were all the things he would say and in her own way she listened.