He's half-asleep when I come in but pretends otherwise. I know how he breathes when he sleeps and therefore am not fooled – he only tricks me half the time when he lies, but that unaccounted other half often undoes me. I hesitate when it comes to being frank and flattering to his face, but my husband really does have the best mind of any of us. This is only a conviction, I think as I move slow in the quiet dark, because sometimes he can still get the better of me. Perhaps not tonight, but.
I slip out of the day's dress and stand in the cool watching him for a moment before pulling on my nightgown. He's listening without really paying attention. Too bold, I think, and suddenly find myself irritated. I slide into bed beside him without joining him beneath the sheets. This particular night air has no direct touch from the ocean; that, combined with the quiet, not-sleeping presence beside me, make the air tense and heavy. I wonder if it makes sense to tell him anything. Everyone listens to something they want to hear selfishly, small and petty in the taking of it with themselves foremost on their own minds. The messenger is a messenger and that is that, but I have no patience or stomach for being the messenger alone.
I run my hand down into the small of his back right at the natural curve of the spine, finding out of distant curiosity the sensitive patch of skin marked by the aftermath of a long-healed burn. Were he really asleep, he would flinch, so my previous thought proves right when he does not. My hand remains, hard fingertips slightly arched against the just-clammy skin, the rest of me playing the keen observer as I move ever so slightly with his breathing. In my head, I whisper his name and bring my lips to his neck. My body-self does not know why and stays stock-still but for the natural, slight movement of our two bodies, almost suspicious.
Iago.
He does not move, but sighs slightly, the sound a distant breeze through just enough fabric to keep the air from cooling. My head tilts and my fingers contract just so on his back; I gather that he is genuinely tired, a small human failing that is nonetheless not a lie. Without consciously deciding to do so, I lower myself close beside him and slide a quiet arm around his waist. The air warms again, settles, feels better on my still-bare face, and everything briefly feels all right.
He stirs restlessly after a few moments. I have a thing for you, I tell him heavily, supposing I can't avoid it, and drape the hand holding the handkerchief over his shoulder. It's only then that he sits up abruptly and turns so I can see his eyes are shining and awake after all. In the close dark, he has to be told twice and still stares uncomprehending like one woken too soon out of a fever.