At three she falls asleep on the sofa.
She has not slept since I do not know when. She falls asleep with her book open on her chest and her mouth a little open, and I take the book out of her hand and I put a quilt over her, and I sit on the floor by the sofa and I read with my back against it, and I let her sleep.
She sleeps two hours.
When she wakes the rain has stopped and the sun is low. She blinks at me. I bend and I kiss her forehead. She closes her eyes again a count. She reaches and she finds my hand and she holds it.
"Evangeline."
"Yes."
"Stay with me tonight."
"I am with you tonight."
"I mean….”
"I know what you mean."
"All right."
"I am with you tonight."
She lets out a long breath.
"All right."
---
We make supper at seven.
She makes pasta with the canned tomatoes and the dried herbs from the cabinet over the stove. I make a salad with what we have. We eat at the kitchen table with the brass lamp on. She drinks a small glass of wine. I drink water. We do not talk much. We do not have to. The silence at the table is not the silence of a thing we are not saying. It is the silence of two women who have said the day's saying.
She does the dishes.
I put the kettle on for tea.
She turns and she looks at me in a way that means only one thing.
"Bed," she says.
"Yes."
"You go up. I will come in five minutes."
"What are you doing?” I ask.
"Locking the door. Putting the porch light off. Putting the truck keys on the hook."
"All right."
She goes to the front of the cabin.
I go to the bedroom.
I take my clothes off and I am naked in her bed under the quilt when she comes in. The lamp is on low.
She undresses at the foot of the bed.
