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No Ideas But In Things

Christine sits sinking into the left corner of the olive green couch.
She handles the latest sociological book or Time magazine over her
neatly folded legs.
Tortoiseshell glasses slide lower down her nose; her glass of wine sweats in her right hand.

Christine is upstairs, mending the bed so the sheets will be cold when she retreats for sleep.
Her head lulls into her chest, a slight snoring ensues.

I crawl in the space beside her, flip through the channels on low.
My heart skips quickly when she grasps my hand and holds it.

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