I liked her best in the morning, standing, swaying, in bed sheets, asking what day it was and trying to recall if we had any lemonade.
She was wonderful without meaning to be and I know that if I told her the wonderment would stop, that her blonde head would get heavy with privilege and maybe she’d get dressed one day and leave.
There were no curtains so sometimes I’d wake at five in the morning with the spilling sun but she’d stay sleeping.
I loved seeing first the white mound moving in breaths, then her hair hiding her face, and finally one milk arm locking herself in, extraordinary treasure in the form of skin.
Then I’d go back to sleep.
She’d often try to silently creep across me trying not to shake the bed and wake me,
to go to the bathroom but I’d usually stir and catch her pink lips with one open eye and sigh when she left the room.
She’d come back and just stand there; her cheek quietly keeping patterns of sleep like temporary scars, topless in her pink knickers, pot-bellied like a bee-sting.
She’d sing to herself, pouring us a cup of lemonade.