And now the man is waking up, doing snow angels in your bed and yawning wide.
You think, I should not allow him to see me standing in the doorway watching him.
You think, that would give him some kind of wrong idea. But after he is done fisting the sleep from his eyes he sees you anyway.
You think, let him. The man smiles, and maybe it’s not a missing molar, maybe it’s closer to the front than that.
His hands are at his chest, scratching his nipple area. Girly, he says to you, I got me some morning wood.
You see for yourself but it ain’t promising, looking like it’s on the other side of wilting. A lazy type of erection.
You remember your daddy warning you about lazy men, saying Check the hands darlin, the uglier the better,
your daddy missing the nails on both thumbs and always offering your mama his index finger to use as a nail file.
You don’t remember the feel of this man’s hands. You couldn’t pull his hands from a police lineup.
You say to the man, nodding toward that mess of a crotch: That ain’t much to write home about,
but it is more like you’ve said it to the room and the room has soaked up your quiet tones and anyway the man is yawning again,
doing that thing people do when they feel right at home, stretching and yawning something closer to a shout than a yawn.