Sleep
I cannot touch him. My hands recoil and I fold them and keep them to myself. Much as I want to, I am afraid. He has fallen asleep, still in his dinner clothes. A silk shirt, a vest. An expensive suit. Still wearing his tie. The coat he's thrown at the foot of the bed. The shoes kicked to one side, near the door. The socks lying around, strewn on the carpet. I sit at the head of the bed, listening to him breathe. He is lying face down. I want to tuck a pillow under his head and cover him with a blanket, but I haven't the heart to disturb him. Besides I really don't want to touch him. He looks so fragile. It had taken days and days of coaxing to get him to agree to go out. We had gone for dinner. He hadn't said a word, barely eaten. Then come back and flopped down on the bed and passed out from sheer exhaustion. There was little I could do or say that would make him feel better. I could never love him like he deserved to be loved. Love . What a silly notion, h