Indoor Snowfall
(066 – Snow)
It's snowing. On the inside.
This is the third realization I've encountered in the listless hour of 3 am.
The first involves my lack of guilt for using the adjoining hotel door for personal purposes. I should feel every bit the intruder for sneaking in uninvited. Not quite breaking and entering, it would still rouse a similar fury from the occupant. If he'd been awake to witness the crime.
The second is an extension of that last thought. He actually does know how to sleep. And I have visual proof. The scene is enticing; sharp planes of his back dappled by a flickering reflection of randomized snow, forearms hidden beneath the pillow, an empty space beside him. The air conditioning takes the edge off the Florida heat, but leaves enough humidity to prompt this exposure of skin. The loose sheet settled at his waist offers tantalizing notions to fuel future solitary nights.
The third requires effort to decipher. Upon investigation, I determine that the man had moved the hotel's reasonably-sized television from its place near the foot of the bed. The cable line had been disconnected, lying across the empty table like a throttled snake. The TV has been relocated to a teetering spot beside the bed, the base too large to fit securely on the bedside table. One would need a gymnastic crane of the neck to view the screen from the mattress. Not that there's anything to see. In its cable-less state, there is only the UHF-born snow pattern, with its static song accompaniment. Whether intended to covers night sounds or fill the quiet, I cannot be sure.
When he stirs, every fiber within me stirs. My flesh tries to pull from my skeleton, seeking contact with forbidden muscles. Shoulder blades and spine shift in an unconscious tease. I catch myself praying the sheet will shift as well. His face buries further into the surprisingly soft hotel pillow. Mine bore several fitful punches earlier.
The white noise of a televised blizzard soothes him even as it covers any sound of my approach. I must get closer. Close enough that my gaze can touch what my hands cannot.
The fourth consists of new discovery. A tiny mole lies just beneath the cap of the left shoulder, the brown spot staining the pale canvas of his back. Compulsion to physically connect with the flaw overwhelms and I step back from the site of temptation. The prudent display of control leaves me itching and relieved, because in the next heartbeat he lifts his head just enough to turn his face from the garbled screen. The loss of his snow-lit features convinces me of the timeliness of my reluctant retreat.
The fifth and final realization is considered in the safety of my own room. What surprises me is not the humanness of the scene, nor the white noise, nor any physical imperfection. It is the tranquil, untethered expression that will outlive the fantasies of what lies beneath that sheet. Never have I witnessed a more undisturbed, uncomplicated moment within the world he inhabits. And yet, it only exacerbates my own issues. Because now that I know how sleep looks on him, I will crave the view. But that empty space beside him is not mine to fill.
I assume the position; on stomach, arms sliding under the pillow, head burrowing in softness. Quite comfortable, actually. I find I miss the static song masking the arrival of waking dawn. Florida heat forces its way into every pore and my sheet clings to my newly naked skin. But in my dreams, there is snow.