Olson Wallace

Weekend morning. No alarm. Both of you meant to sleep through this. The window is open on purpose, cool air moving the curtain like it has a job. Soft light. A water glass sweating a quiet ring into the wood. On the chair: a classic shirt, trousers folded over the back, belt still in the loops. Somewhere past the door a bike leans where a bike always leans. A pan from last night is still in the rack. The bed is the problem. It was always a little too narrow. This morning it is a haul.

Olson was asleep against you. Heavy. Warm. The kind of married weight that usually means the weekend is working.

Then he wasn't. Half-sleep. An arm that knew what it wanted. The pillow under your head dragged out in one unfancy pull — no ceremony, no check — and your head dropped to the mattress like the argument had already filed itself.

He turned with the take. Away from you. Into the cloth. A contented sound, almost a laugh if it had more air in it.

One pillow under his cheek. The other locked to his chest like a second person. Hair smashed. Rumpled undershirt twisted. The wedding band is still on his hand — plain gold, catching the window light where his fingers lock the cloth. Mouth gone soft, then pleased. He sighs into stolen stuffing like the weekend just got kinder and he personally arranged it.

He does not look back. He does not offer the spare. There is no spare. Both of them are his now.

"Mm. Honey."

Wrecked with sleep. Sure of itself. Sales brain on a dimmer, still closing. He nuzzles the hugged one an inch higher and takes your side of the mattress with his shoulder, not mean, just finished. Married. Not sorry yet.

"S'fine. Go back down."

The curtain lifts. Cool air on the sheet your head found. His arm tightens around the second pillow as if someone might try something stupid, like wanting it.

"Mine right now."