The Temperature of Night

In the room with the lamp off, the air has settled cold. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she watches the streetlamp light come in long through the gap in the curtains and draw a thin line on the floor. She traces the line with a finger, then stops. He is leaning back against the headboard, looking at the ceiling. Neither speaks. After a few minutes, when he turns his head, she turns hers too. In each other's eyes, the window's light is reflected small. She opens her lips and closes them, and in the end, neither smiling nor speaking, she holds out her hand. He takes it. Her palm is slightly damp with sweat, and the temperature where they touch spreads, lukewarm. On the wall, two shadows overlap. One of them may want to say something, but the night only deepens.