His eyelids flutter open and I’m watching him as he awakes; treacherous hazel eyes under the luminous morning light that bathes his room everyday at exactly this time, making waking up next to each other seem like a scene from someone else’s dream. But, no. This was the eye of the storm. This was the last breaths of life on a heaving chest before the knife finally sinks in. He squints at me from underneath the half-light. 

We lie on our sides facing each other with nothing but five inches of distance and heavy silence keeping us apart; our bodies are even heavier, barely recovered from sleep- swathed under white blankets above rumpled, equally white sheets. Movement emanating from the street outside the window probably made by early morning joggers or cars passing by disrupts the quietude of the morning, creating shifting shadows that reflect on his face. He lifts a finger and slowly drags it around the corners of my lips, forcing a smile. 

"Your wife will be home soon," I say as I get up from the bed, pluck my shirt from the floor and move in long strides across the room to the door. "...you can take out that wedding ring now and slip it on your finger and tell her how much you love her while she gives you head. Go to hell."

This wasn't a dream. Not even a nightmare. This was jarring, painful reality.