When I come out of the shower, I wrap a towel around my waist and sit perched on the end of the bed as I wait for her. My hair is still wet and skin still damp.
It's late. I reach across to switch on the bedside light, its glow only half lighting the room. As I do it, I notice his picture on the table. He is staring back at me, smiling.
She must have put it there since the last time I was in this room. A reminder. Some sort of comfort. Maybe just to reinforce a sense of him in this room. Their room.
She has told me she wants me to sleep in here tonight. She doesn't want to feel alone. She doesn't go further than that. She never does. Maybe she can't. It's enough for her to tell me that she is afraid of the loneliness, like a child afraid of the dark.
I think about tomorrow, wishing it was already over and done with. It is less than a week since my twenty second birthday. We didn't really mark it though. I suppose it's not the time for that. I know that will change eventually. Perhaps tomorrow it will begin to feel different.
I look up and she is standing in the doorway, watching me. I stare back at her without speaking. Since this started, we haven't articulated it in words. It's not about words.
She is wearing black. A satin gown, loosely tied at the waist. Sheer black stockings that cling to the soft roundness of her thighs. I know that she has worn them for me. For this. It helps us both find that place in our mind that we want to be.
She is 43 years old and too young for a day like tomorrow. She is still beautiful. Slim. Long black hair and warm, dark eyes. Just lately, it has occurred to me that she is a little shorter in height than me. It's been that way since my teens, but I just didn't register it until these last few weeks. Maybe that's because of the way our roles in each other's lives have changed now.
She sits down next to me on the bed. Her hand feels soft as she touches my cheek. I want to tell her that she looks beautiful, because she does. There is just a suggestion of a smile in acknowledgement of my gaze, but no more. No words.
Her lips are gentle as they touch mine, her fingers still touching my cheek. My mother's kiss.
