There was a moon that night, a half moon, I suppose, or less. It lit up your furrowed face through the window and the smoke curling up over your head. 

"Come to bed," I said.

You walked up to kiss me on the cheek. You smelled of sweat  and cigarettes and a whiff of wine.  An odor of restless energy. A tinge of desire, perhaps.

"What's on your mind?"
"Nothing important, love."
"Tell me."
"I don't know, really. Just things."
"What kind of things?"
"Please."
"Please?'


You lie down, contorted on your side, breathing hard. You closed your eyes. You were far away, curled up like a leaf inside yourself.

Tomorrow we would talk about trees and high fructose corn syrup. PFOAs, maybe, or the Giza Plateau.And cotton. We liked to talk about cotton. We would not, however, be talking about why you didn't want to talk about your own--stuff. And I would sit there, over coffee and tell you how it was all very well. Very well, indeed.