I open the door. I kiss him.
He says, “I can’t fall asleep.”
I say, “You’ll have to fake it for forty-five more minutes, I’m writing with Kate.”
I have an appointment. Two hours. Sex penciled in for the end of the slot, the right time-span for him to have a nap, for me to write, to get back to the habit and the pages and the writing buddy I’ve been missing.
He gets up anyway. Smokes. Gets dressed. I put in my headphones, worry that I’m losing a chance to show my boyfriend I love him, undoing the emails and phone calls and lessons in his (otherwise useless) language, then turn up the music and type.