Tiffany
He's not awake, at least not fully. I think. I'm standing in front of the couch where he's spent the night, and I'm looking at him. I don't know why he went out and got drunk. It's the first time I've seen this side of him. Then he stirs, and I step back, waiting for his eyes to open and adjust to the image of me before him. There is no movement again. His upper body is sagging against the couch like he is just about to fall off, but he will not. I know that. It's a good thing his son isn't going to be home until tomorrow.
"Larry?" I drag the name slowly, so it doesn't sound too loud or too weird. "Are you awake?"
He says nothing, but his eyelids move slightly from side to side. He is not exactly awake yet, but he will be soon. I think about cooking but shake my head. I wouldn't have the time, plus wouldn't it seem quite obsessive to be cooking for a man—my new husband—so early in the morning? How desperate did I have to be anyway?
So I make the conscious decision to get coffee. It would help if I am careful with the order. I don't know what he'll like right now, but I'm sure he will not be offended by an Americano.
The girl from the coffee shop has a story for me when I walk in. The place is empty, and she is turning on the lights at the back. On the display case, I see the mountain of snacks and desserts and laugh in the crook of an elbow.
"So did you know you could lie down on a patch of grass and empty out your lungs and float? Did you know that?" She seems strangely enthusiastic when she asks the question, and I know that it is foolish—the fake facts piled in front of me—but I pretend to believe it. And at that moment, when my mind drifts back to Larry on the couch, I wonder what he'll say if I told him this.
"I don't know," I answer. Will he be awake now? There is still time.