LITMIR.BIZ

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“Eat the kibble in your bowl. It’s not dinnertime yet. Later I’ll give you some more wet food.” The cat looks at him, stays seated. “All right, all right.” He gets a little of the turkey out of the plastic bag it’s in and drops it on the plate. The cat eats it and goes to the door. “You gonna leave me all by my lonesome? Okay. See ya later,” and opens the door and the cat goes outside. He goes back to the bedroom, sits at his work table and thinks should he continue writing what he started this morning? Still has a couple of hours before it gets dark. Nah. He knows where it’s going. Tomorrow. After breakfast. He takes off his sneakers and lies on the bed. Room’s a little cold. So what? Nah, don’t get cold. He gets the wool throw off the chair near the bed. His mother gave them it when their first child was born. From Ireland, she said. Sent away for it. She also gave them one of a different plaid when their second child was born. His older daughter used this one for a long time. Then left it behind when she moved out of the house and he had it dry-cleaned and now thinks of it as his. He unfolds it and lies on the bed and pulls it over him up till his neck. His feet stick out. So what? They won’t get cold. He has socks on. He cups his hands on his chest and thinks of the dream he woke up from this morning when it was just getting light out. In it, his wife was in a blue dress. Corduroy. Opened at the neck maybe three buttons down and belted at the waist. She had that dress before they first met and wore it a lot when it was cold out and they were going out for dinner or to a concert of play. It was one of the many clothes of hers he gave to Purple Heart and Amvets. The kids had first crack at everything of hers but over more than two years took almost nothing, not even a single piece of jewelry, though they didn’t want him to sell or give anything of that away. Her hair was brushed back and hung over her shoulders. She seemed healthy, spirited, happy, ran back and forth through the house. “Hold up,” he said, when she zipped past him again. “Where you going so fast? You’re like a cat.” He caught up with her in the hallway bathroom. She was looking at herself in the medicine cabinet mirror. He got up close behind her and said to her mirror image “You look beautiful again. And when you look so beautiful I don’t want to leave you for a second.” “I have to leave you,” she said to his mirror image, and he said “No, you misunderstood me. I was talking about myself. Oh, what of it? And maybe what I said about your being beautiful was the wrong thing to say.” He put his arms around her from behind. She looked at the mirror image of his hands, then turned around in his arms till she was facing him and they kissed. The dream ended then. Wouldn’t you know it. Well, at least he got to kiss her. He shut his eyes. Maybe I’ll nap awhile, he thinks, and get to dream of her again. The cat’s banging one of the bedroom windows. There are three types of windows in this room: a long one opposite the bed, which he thinks is called a picture window, but he could be wrong; two small windows to the right of the bed, at the most two feet by three and which open and close with a crank; and a regular one, above the chair the throw was on and which the cat’s banging with his paw. “Go away,” he says. “Let me rest. You haven’t been out that long, and it’s nice out and you have your fur coat on.” The cat, standing on an outside ledge about six feet off the ground, keeps banging the window with his paw. He gets up, raises the window and then the screen. The cat comes in and jumps to the floor and runs out of the room. He closes the screen and leaves the window a little open at the bottom. He gets back on the bed under the throw, cups his hands on his chest and shuts his eyes. He’ll try again. It’d be nice to have another dream of her so soon after this morning’s. It’s happened, and maybe a continuation of that one or one where they make love. Those are the best, or equal to any deep-kissing dream with her, even if he’s never come in one. He falls asleep. He doesn’t dream, or doesn’t remember dreaming, after he wakes up.

       Go to Sleep

      He wakes up and she’s not there. What did he think? Of course she’s not there. But he imagines she is. Or tries to. Sticks out his hand where she used to sleep. Feels along the mattress to the end of what was her side of the bed. Touches her. Her back. Runs his hand up her spine and smoothes her neck. Runs his hand down the crack of her back to her behind. Feels it. Rubs it. Circles his hand around one buttock, then the other. Can you feel me? he thinks. “Can you feel my hand?” he says. “You’ve been gone so long. It’s good to have you back. ‘Good’? There isn’t a word for it. Can you turn over on your back?” She turns over. He feels her breasts under her nightshirt. Feels between her legs under her panties. The last few years she wore diapers to bed. Or “pads,” they preferred calling them. He’d take them off her in the morning, even if they were dry, which they almost never were, after he got her out of bed into her wheelchair, wheeled the chair into the bathroom, and got her on the toilet. “I thought I threw out all your panties ages ago. They were in the second dresser drawer from the top, about ten of them. I asked you if it was all right. After all, you didn’t wear them anymore. Hadn’t for years, and we thought you never would. And they were old and no organization like Goodwill or Purple Heart would ever take them. Now you have a pair on. Did I miss one? I guess it means you think you no longer need the pad at night and maybe not even during the day. Good. I like panties on you better and I’m sure you do too. They must feel better. The pad, I think, could be a bit uncomfortable to wear and they’re not easy to get on and off. We must have talked about this before.” He moves nearer to her. He can’t see her face in the dark. Can’t see any part of her body. And she’s still under the covers. It’s a cold night. It must be around two or three in the morning. The quietest time outside. All the curtains in the room are closed. He drew them before he went to bed. Wanted to sleep late this morning because he hasn’t been getting much sleep lately. Tosses around in bed for hours some nights, or after his first few hours of sleep. Doesn’t know why. Maybe he should stop drinking an hour or two before he goes to sleep. What he does now, and has for months, longer, is drink right up to the time he goes in back, washes up, gets in bed and reads till his eyes get tired, and turns off the light. “Do you mind if I touch you down there? I know I did it before without asking, but that was just to find out what you had on.” He’s not touching her now and he says “I mean your crotch,” and he feels her crotch. The hair around it. Then her thighs near the crotch. “I’ve always loved your thighs. You never did. You thought they were too large. Or ‘plump,’ was the word I think you used, but I always thought they were just right. Or not that large or plump. Or whatever I mean. I’ve also always loved your hair down there. So soft. You didn’t; thought there was too much. And I know you don’t like me talking about your body like this. Never did. But I did it anyway, maybe because it got me excited. Of course because it got me excited; we both know that. I loved their smoothness. Softness. Hairlessness.” He feels her vagina. “I shouldn’t play around like this. But I do want to touch it. Do you mind? Say you do, and I’ll stop.” He pulls on her pubic hair a little. “That didn’t hurt, did it? If it did, I’m sorry; I’ll stop. If you want me to go on, you’ll say so, yes? Oh, this is getting us nowhere. Actually, I don’t know what I mean by that. And I’m sounding like such a creep, which I can be, something we also both know. Okay, I’ll take my hand away,” and he takes it away and then tries to put it back. She’s not there. He lies on his back. Removes one of the three pillows—between them, they always had four—he’d set up against the wall so he could sit back against them while he read last night before he went to sleep. Maybe lying his head on three pillows kept him from sleep. Maybe not. But maybe now he’ll be able to fall back to sleep. Just two, if they’re good pillows, and his are, should be enough for anybody. He clasps his hands on his stomach and shuts his eyes. No, she’s there, all right. She was before, why shouldn’t she be there now? He reached out for her hand. But she must have turned back on her right side at the edge of her side of the bed, out of reach. If he stretched his hand or moved a few inches closer to her, he could reach her. What would he try to touch first? Her left shoulder under the covers. Doesn’t know why. Just came into his head. And he’s sure it’s under the covers. Room’s too cold for her shoulder to be exposed. Then he’d move the front of his body into the back of her and swing his left arm around so his hand could feel both her breasts at the same time. If she said his hand was too cold for that—it had been out of the covers awhile—he’d take it away. He’d fall asleep like that. First saying “Do you mind if I hold you like this and am squeezed into you?” If she said nothing, he’d stay where he was, holding her breasts. Maybe she would already

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