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Her body jolts her awake: 3:43 a.m.

The air. It’s heavy. Her heart. It’s light.

The incongruence rouses her, like a cold front meeting a warm front to wrestle into a storm.

Behind her, his breath tickles the back of her neck like delicate lightning zaps.

She shoves him away. But even in his sleep, he is committed to her.

His body slowly, unconsciously, reflexively gravitates toward hers again.

She shoves him away. He returns. Like a slow magnet.

Such a deep sleeper. Nothing could stir his peace.

She peers at him in the moonlight bed. His neck is open. His perfect muscles painted by shadows. His high cheekbones remain tight, his fluttering eyelids loose.

She cannot sleep anyway.

So she pushes his limp body onto his back and forces her hand down the front of his boxers.

She strokes him in his sleep, up down up down up down

Until she falls asleep.

The sun is up. The air. It’s heavy. His center feels oddly electrified,

As if a certain, highly alert part of his body had been awake all night.

The intensity of his lower half is incongruent with his foggy morning mind.

That insomniac, he thinks; it’s never satisfied.

Why does it feel so different this morning?

He wonders why.

And how does she always sleep so soundly, long after the sun comes up?

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