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I awake at four. The air has gone still and stagnant. The heat presses me down into the bed, plein et dur. Sweat slicks out of me, trickling down all my cracks and crevices. I sprawl across the bed spread-eagled, but it doesn't help. It's just too damned hot.
He's still conscious. I can feel it in the tiny movements of the bed. These are what woke me, and I lie still, willing him to stop moving. The bed keeps moving, and I turn to look at him. He's prone. The only movement is the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. I lay still again, press my face down into the mattress, relax my clenched jaw, but the bed moves like the tick of a silent clock. And then I realize the movement is me. It's the beating of my own heart.
He's still conscious. I can feel it in the tiny movements of the bed. These are what woke me, and I lie still, willing him to stop moving. The bed keeps moving, and I turn to look at him. He's prone. The only movement is the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. I lay still again, press my face down into the mattress, relax my clenched jaw, but the bed moves like the tick of a silent clock. And then I realize the movement is me. It's the beating of my own heart.
