One balmy Sunday morning sometime in September, I opened my eyes to him. It was then I came to understand the wordless conversation. We talked so many, many times before-but none of that seemed to compute anymore-it was just filler anyway. Our conversations really live in the soft rustle of the sheets while our limbs slide against one another. This is where they were always meant to be.
” ” he said.
” ” I said back.
I stretch out on the flannel plaid sheets and I laugh. A small release of sound, more like a hiccup than anything else. Everything is clear in the absence of words. We focus on the yawn of the box spring instead. I listen for the crescendo of his breaths. He turned to me and pulled me in so my nose lightly grazed his neck. I now know this is our morning greeting. The shells for our bodies press together and we know this translates to, “I’m awake.”
His fingers trace the freckles on the edge of my cheeks while I capture his other hand in one of mine. We are bound together by the conversation of our bodies-these are the words we couldn’t risk to say aloud.
This doesn’t last all morning though. Eventually we share a sad look that means, “we have other responsibilities today.” So, we fall from the cloud and onto the stale carpet. I laugh as I watch him struggle to find his glasses so he can find his shirt.
And then the illusion is broken. We leave each other and walk off into a day of meaningless words; we stumble off to answer questions like, “Did you read that e-mail?” and “How is your love life?”
” ,” I say.
A Word I Haven't Found Yet 