When I opened my eyes this morning I was on my back, sandwiched between Jacob's elbows that he was resting on, smiling at me lazily, cozily. His beautiful blue eyes cross when he's tired and I made a mental note to book an eye appointment for him. He's been having trouble with night-driving for a while now and reads a million and twenty-nine hundred words a day, so I am not surprised by this.
The thunderstorms. There is no rest for the wicked. There's something so delicious about being woken up in the dark hours of the morning when the sky is at war outside our window, his lips on my shoulder, his hands, well,
Oh the places you'll go!
It makes me laugh, and not in a Dr. Seuss, you're so clever type of way.
He can wrap one hand completely around my thigh and make his fingers touch. He's electric, energetic and ambitious and I'll never push him away in favor of sleep, I'll just catch up in some other desperate way. It's the year 2007, hasn't someone come up with instantly-rested pills yet? There's a pill for just about everything else.
I'm not supposed to have coffee anymore. Maybe my eyes cross too. I get them tested religiously every two years because I'd be terrified to lose my sight. I could live without my hearing. When it's gone I'll roll out the songs I have filled my head with and sing them to myself for the rest of time. I'll feel Jacob's voice through his skin when my ears are useless for anything other than captive bead rings.
Speaking of which. I noticed I was earringless on one side last night. Asymmetrical. Which means Jacob probably ate a bead and then the ring fell out. I'm sure it happened last Tuesday in our rush to consecrate those hard wooden steps. He's eaten more than a few pieces of jewelry in the past year. It's almost become a sport.
He says none of the jewelry tastes as good as the one tiny spot in the hollow of my throat that is perpetually warm and smells of his patchouli but tastes like roses.
I have a feeling Jacob has never actually eaten a rose, not that I would put it past him looking at him through my rose-colored glasses, knowing his romantic bent is a mile wide, I just think they taste gross. Because I checked. Because it's impossible to lick the hollow of your own throat and his tasted like soap and I said Oobleck and he laughed and laughed. I had a fleeting thought maybe we matched taste. I guess not.
