3AM

I.
There is a crash and the house vibrates. My eyes shoot open and a flash of lightening illuminates the room for a second. The eyes of my dolls are eerily open, watching. A deafening boom follows the light and it repeats within seconds. The thunder and lightning occur almost simultaneously. The rain pelts the sky light in my room – so loud it is like hail, so loud it almost dulls the bursts of thunder. I pull the comforter up to my chin and breathe in, out, in, out. It is just a storm, I’m safe. I repeat the mantra in my mind over and over again. With each flash of lightening, I swear I see things moving in the corners of my room. Fearsome things lurking, waiting to pounce. In, out. In, out. I force my breath to be slow, steady. I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep. I think pleasant thoughts – summer days doing cannon balls at my grandma’s pool, racing around the block on my purple banana seat bike, slurping icy root beer floats at the drive in. I feel my grip on the comforter start to loosen, the tightness in my chest starts to dissipate. I no longer have to consciously slow my breath. The storm rages on and I slip into a dream.

II.
Your breath is steamy in my ear. Your tongue traces along its edge and ends at my lobe. You hold it in your mouth. It is wet, hot. You move to my neck, gently teasing my skin with your teeth. You smell earthy; a combination of rum, sweat and cologne. I run my hands under your shirt and feel your chest, trace the outline of your pecks. I lift it up over your head and press my lips against yours. I feel light headed: the last glass of wine and desire simultaneously fogging and heightening my senses. Dido’s crooning and our labored breathing is all I hear. The candles on the dresser and the nightstand flicker. You pull off my shirt and fumble with my bra. Then, in one smooth movement, you cradle me onto your bed, brush the long strands of dark hair out of my eyes and kiss me. I unbutton your jeans and push them off of your legs with my foot and then slide out of my own. We are naked moving, hips tilting, grinding – hard, pressing into each other. Pushing, building, frantic until we release.

III. I feel your tiny hand on my breast as we rock, snuggled in the glider in the nursery. It is dark except for a sliver of moonlight that shines through the opening where the curtains meet. The only sound is the rush of the wind through the trees outside and the rhythm of your sucks and swallows. You roll the nipple on my left breast between your thumb and pointer finger with your right hand, absently fondling your food source. I wince and remove your hand while tucking my nightshirt tighter around that nipple so you can’t pinch it. I rest my head against the padded chair and close my eyes. I rock us back and forth; my feet perched on the edge of the footrest. Your fingers and open palm lightly caress the skin between my sternum and left breast. Your eyes are closed, lips fluttering, jaw working. You stop. My nipple, moist with milk, slips out of your mouth. Your face is peaceful, content. Your hand rests on my heart. I imagine the comfort that courses through your small body as you feel the familiar thud-thud, the music of the womb. I hold you a little longer, enjoying your weight in my arms, the quiet darkness of the night, your soft, sweet scent.