Sunday Night

These quiet moments —
sitting in my apartment with you,
I in one chair
you on the couch across the room
the dog lying on the floor between us —
these quiet moments
are what I live for,
when I can sit in total silence
being alone with you.

Snow falls outside,
piling up on the sidewalks
and our cars; by morning
there will be
six inches of white powder
covering, silencing all.

From inside we watch
the snow through the window,
a white hush outside
but a gentle guitar strumming
and a soothing voice in here,
from your laptop
playing Iron and Wine
as a backdrop to the coziness
we’ve created together.

I sit under a blanket in a chair,
a book on my lap
and a cup of hot tea in my hand,
the steam rising up
into my face
as I take sip after sip.
A small lamp next to me
lights the entire room,
casting long shadows
across the way,
alternating with dark yellow light.

You lounge on the couch,
nodding your head to the music,
tapping your fingers
on the half-empty bottle of beer
you’ve been drinking all night.
You tap absentmindedly
along to the music
on the bottle,
and sit up to reach your computer
and turn up the volume.

I look up at your movement
and grin.
I like this, I say. What, you say.
This, just sitting here. It’s the
perfect environment.
You chuckle and agree.
We smile at each other.

The dog, hearing our voices,
sits up and wags her tail;
it thumps against the floor.
You look back at your computer,
living in the music. I
smile at you and resume
reading, cupping my tea
in both hands to keep
me warm.

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