The shadows shifted and bent, closing in on themselves and deepening where they were disturbed. Passing from one to the next, ever closer, the shifting dark found edges on the form and lost them again. The enameled bars bled heat from the skin through a cocoon of blankets. Try to disappear. Sink into the mattress, down through the floor, get away, any way, just disappear. Pull the covers tighter, tug of war, constrict, pull away, sink down, immovable. Fiber sliding through fingers, wrapped around wrists, tightens, slides, burns. Cold bleeds through, the outer defenses are falling. Hold ground. Cold is everywhere. Losing.
"No!"
The mumbling sighs of sleep burst into a shout, and in the whipcord release she jolts up, flailing, and collides with a burst of pain in the dark. She falls back whimpering, and curls in on herself, holding her head. Her shoulder under her aches, and she wiggles her toes against the numbness in her leg on the same side. Her hips are bent awkwardly, caught in the folds of the down comforter. Nylon curls jab into her cheek – carpet. She reaches for the sheet below, remembering to stay low to avoid – what was it? The desk. She remembers the maple veneer overhangs the base about a hand-span. Fumbling in the dark she chases down the pillow, slamming her knuckles more than once into the iron bed frame. She tries not to think about what other things might be lurking about down here, and tries to sort out the twisted wreckage of the comforter and duvet. She can't remember why she's on the floor, what started the argument. The bulk of him looms against the questionably white wall, the glare of halogen from outside cutting across his thighs. The oscillating fan is off now, and from where she crouches among the clutter she studies him, skin turned to marble in the cold light. Almost like dead, until the low snore starts again. Once asleep she never notices it, but in the cold emptiness of being wide awake it grates on her nerves, makes her angry.
"Why am I even here?"
The fight was small, stupid. They always are. They get along fine until she wants something he doesn't feel up to. It was two days since he'd agreed to watch the movie. A little thing, a together thing, restful and relaxing. Maybe that was how it started, and maybe she wasn't giving enough to have a place to ask anyway. Was that why she was on the floor? He'd complained of heat, didn't want to be close, not earlier, and not on the way to bed. Like the night before, when she'd come over in her dress. She couldn't remember the last time she owned a nice dress, she felt good in it. Tall, even a little elegant, in black with a crimson shawl. It had been a bargain, and she had needed something to wear to her friend's wedding anyway. He wouldn't touch her. She remembered that. She would always remember that, the frown when he saw her. Now, huddled on the floor, she thinks of painting him like this, curled around the pillows the way he does when he's cold, hair splayed out in long pieces, dark against dark on the rumpled mattress. She thinks about water, but remembers he fixed the door handle – he might wake up if she opened the door. It was easier to take the rejection if she could believe he was oblivious in sleep. You can't be angry for something someone does in their sleep.
"How are you?"
That suddenly, he was awake, aware. How long had he been awake, listening to her stare at him from a meter away? Had he heard her wake from her nightmare, and pretend to sleep, or was it after that he woke? He turned to face her, eyes shrouded in the shifting darkness. Trying to focus the overlapping images she concentrated on the sweep of his brows and the full lips she could just barely make out. The room itself was like a reflection in hammered silver, cells of color shifting one into the other at soft edges, a smoky palate too narrow in value to make anything terribly distinct.
"Do you want to come up here?"
Thick arms opened, stretching into the gray space between them.
"Please come here."
His head sagged onto a supporting shoulder and he waited. She thought about painting him like that, the black shadow from the wand of the mini blinds falling across his chest, the shallow depth perception helping it masquerade as an arrow shaft, his arms out, legs twisted in the sheet, the ambient light cooling everything like Dionysus surprised by Death.
"Why don't you want to come up here?"
She gathered the comforter closer around her, and his hands dropped the last few inches to the mattress. Slowly she willed herself forward, clumsy in the massive comforter, tripping on the sheet, the pillow, and the hem of the pants she'd put back on in the cold. They were twisted, and she thought about fixing them before laying down. She rested a knee on the edge as he moved to make room for her. She folded herself to fit in the space, shivering from contact with the December air.
"Why are you curling up? Please don't. Open back up."
He pressed against her back, reaching around to put a hand over her knees. She stretched out a little, careful to keep the edge of the covers folded over her toes. He sighed, readjusted his weight, and withdrew his hand to her waist. She stared out into the room, light-blind from having glanced at the Indiglo clock, never mind she couldn't read it. She tried to will herself past the tension into sleep.
"I can't sleep."
He rolled on to his back, pulling away from her quickly, jolting her out of drowsiness. The cold seeped in where he had been, stealing heat from her and knotting her muscles tighter than before. Everything was so cold.
"Come here. Please."
She turned, and was gathered against him. Her ear folded over under her, but she didn't dare move. Blood rushing through her veins pounded at her, beating against the steady deep rumblings of his heart beneath her palm. She closed her eyes and focused on it, feeling her own come into sync with it. Maybe in the morning everything would be right again. She shut everything out but the rhythm and sailed away on the rise and fall of his breath.
*
The flames danced, washing the circle with warm light. Still dripping from the saltwater bath, she knelt at the low table and took a clay moon in her palm. Turning it, from the white face to the dark, she thought about last week and the string of arguments and bad feelings. She asked the dark moon for direction, and reached for the black stoneware bowl. She held it inverted over the flames until the heat was too much to bear. She poured water into it slowly, clearing her mind and settling more comfortably. She was looking for direction, and maybe for hope. She was looking for what she needed to see. She was looking for her path. Staring into the black depths, she cupped the bowl in her hands and sent her energy into it. Images and thoughts passed by her, through her, around her, swirling as she dove deeper into awareness. Sinking into it, moving down through the world in her little bowl she released her questions to float with her in the blackness. Path. Answer. Sign. Hope. Love. Pain. Lost. Need.
Death.