It wasn’t time to wake up yet, even if the birds were singing, if your face was relaxed with predawn sleep, eyes closed, your lips parting slightly with the audible exhale you claimed I made up because you “didn’t snore.”
Morning greeting time came when you reached your arm out, invited me to lay my head on your shoulder. I’d nestle in to your neck, your jaw, brush against your early morning whiskers, and your eyes, if you weren’t too lost in mental to-do-list preparation, crinkled into the faintest smile.
Take-on-the-world time was fresh-shaven and fresh-shirted, your eyes at their bluest, your face eager, ready, warrior energy fully refueled, impatiently charging past the starting line of the front door.
Day’s end began when you blew back in. Triumphant or wearied from the day’s battle, your face announced if you were hungry for food, for comfort, for challenge, or for the adoration men live for on the front lines.
Eventually, I counted minutes and even seconds by your sounds and sighs, the way your eyes changed in the light of which nighttime companion you’d choose.
Some nights you chose me, turned your face directly to mine, your eyes open and face tense with need, eyes darkening as desire deepened. The rapid count of seconds between can’t-wait-any-longer – the last vestige of self-control – and the time of release.
Other nights you chose Jack, Absolut, Herradura, or sultry Oregon pinot noir, your jaw and forehead tense with need, your gaze turning to a distant stare as desire deepened and resolve weakened. Within minutes of pouring your first drink, the lines on your face slackened, your eyes distilled with liquid reprieve, dissolving milky blue with your second, the excruciating slowing of seconds between the last vestige of self-control and the time of release, when you poured your third, and your face closed completely to me.
That’s when I knew it was time for me to go.