The Lovers | Christel Thompson

CHRISTEL THOMPSON

When she switches off the light, her frame hangs in the air—the white shadow of her body shimmering for just an instant before it dissolves into the quiet blackness of the bedroom. Outside, the air is thick with cold and the newly-naked trees reach their brittle limbs to the sky.

They are practiced in these twilit movements, the art of sleeping with another tender body: his mouth pressed against the softness of her exposed shoulder, her hair splashed like hot iron across the pillows.

It is freezing now, and soon it will be dawn. But inside, it is warm. He traces her face with his fingers, stroking the smooth conch of her ear. When they finally wake and step out into the daylight, their noses will go numb— their fingers and their lips as well.