the short

We’re in the back bedroom, my wife and I. Fucking.

It’s hard sometimes to find the time, the moment. Children, work, day-to-day life — these things conspire and distract and exhaust.

But we find the time, when we can. We find the moments, synchronized, together. And it is good. Perhaps it is too brief, too short. But we know each other so well now.

Like tonight. Together in the bed in the back bedroom — my absent son’s bedroom converted to a guest room for the time being.

The room sits in the relationship corner of our home, according to my understanding of feng shui. So, I suppose, it’s good that we don’t leave it empty. It’s good we fill it, from time to time, with each other.

As we fuck, the window rattles — the expected ice storm has arrived.

Reaching the end, of our short time — doing my best to hold out as long as I can, to stretch the moment and the movement as long as possible — I look up at my wife’s beautiful face shrouded in shadow. A moment later there is a flash of light and she laughs, suddenly visible.

The bedside lamp has turned on by itself.

It flickers, then goes dark.

This happens, more or less, five or six times before we’re finished.

It almost seems to be an accompaniment to my wife’s final burst of lovemaking, a response to her rising and falling.

After she heads to the shower, I inspect the lamp. I try to find a reason for the erratic interruption. Nothing I do will replicate the odd flashing.

I unplug it, just in case there is a short.

For the rest of the evening, even now, I’m fighting the feeling that someone is just behind me — quiet, waiting.

Outside, the ice storm seems to have passed. It is cold. My hair is on end. I do not know if I will sleep tonight.