Limbo

He’s left the bedside lamp on. Its glow peeks out from under the crack of the bedroom door and into the living room. It means he’d rather I didn’t turn on the overhead lights. It means he’s waiting up for me, horny, but I’m drunk and my libido is as erratic as candlelight. It means he was waiting up, but now he’s fast asleep.

I take off my clothes, here, in the living room, but keep my heels on. I could walk into the bedroom, an unconventional pin up. I’d slip into bed and whisper, 'I’m really tired,' while lying down beside him long enough for it to dawn that I’m naked, before turning away. He’d kill the light after 30 or so seconds while silence wraps itself around me instead, like I wanted. I think.

I could sleep out here tonight. I put my coat back on, claw at the air until I grab the sofa and sink into it.

I know he can hear me. I want him to come out here. I think he can hear me. I don’t want him to come out here.

I could open the door and see him turn to smile at me sleepily. I’ll open the door and get a full view of his back, one arm stretching towards the lamp, a hand poised over the switch.

I’m too tired to sleep. The light under the door is perpetual sunlight. I move to stand in front of it and wait.