Sometimes at night I sit on my back porch and think of you. I don't know anything about you now, but I think about a timeline in which we are together.
It is a fantasy, to be sure; in this timeline, we never argue about anything, no one ever leaves their clothes on the floor or leaves the bathroom door open at night so the light creeps in. In this timeline, you bring me flowers regularly, but always as a surprise. I have a special vase for them. These are no plastic-wrapped grocery store flowers; the bouquets are different every time. There is always at least one yellow cornflower in the bunch, because you pay attention.
We like the same foods here. There is no reminding you that we need to eat vegetables. No opening the fridge and finding 6 jars of pickles crowding the other food from the shelves. You pretend to love black jelly beans and fight me for the rare few in the package; laughing, you relent and admit you don't really like them, and trade me for some green ones. You love cilantro and jalapenos and pho and prefer your coffee strong, with cream, and have two cups every morning with me as we sit on our back porch. We watch the sun come up and listen to the birds. The street is quiet around us except for the rising chorus of chirps, the occasional bark of a dog. You ask me if I want breakfast, and I shake my head no, not yet, so we sit together and sip our coffee. Sometimes we hold hands.
Do we have children here? No, I feel too old, even in this alternate timeline, to have any more children. We think about it. I think about staying up at night and rocking a fussy baby, while you sleep in the next room. At 2 am, I come to wake you up, baby still in my arms and shaking you harder each moment. Wake up, it's my turn to sleep, I say, and you roll over and find your robe at the end of the bed. You take the baby from me and speak to her softly and shush her while I crawl under the covers. You lean over to kiss my forehead as I fall instantly to sleep. But you and I decide we don't want to have children, because we only want to love each other.
And I do love you. I love you so much, I lay in the tall grass with you and feel the heft of the ground under us, smell the minerals in the earth, and hear the lift of the breeze. We watch the sun go behind clouds, hands joined. I smell rain in the air. Sometimes you lay your body over mine and kiss me, taking my face in your hands and stroking my cheeks softly. Your eyes wrinkle in the corners as you smile down at me. Sometimes I lay my body over yours, hands rasping over your beard, kissing you deeply and hungrily.
