Breakup

"I am sick of writing about romance", she said. The blankets were pulled back, and she was curled up with her laptop. I was trying to get in an afternoon nap. Sunlight drifted in through the windows, and winter afternoon sunlight is the best kind for sleeping in, or so I always maintained. She maintained that the only people who slept during daylight were vampires. I was never quite sure what to do with that, especially in the post-Twighlight vampire fetish world.

"So write about something else", I yawned. She shot me a look that almost made me jealous of those people who get eaten by Volturri or whatever the heck they're called in the world of Stephanie Meyers. Things were not going well, and I suspected that my saying the obvious wasn't helping matters. It occurred to me vaguely that I probably was supposed to put my arm around her, tell her she was brilliant and would find many other things to write about, and start sticking my tongue into her mouth. It occured to me concretely that such a course of action was very likely to result in sex.

Sex - I guess that was the one part of our relationship that was working. Not a bad part, if you had to choose, but I had learned long ago that sex does not to keep something going indefinitely. Especially if said "thing" involves sympathy and cuddling.

"If we broke up, I could write about the breakup", she said brightly, as if she had just suggested going out for a cup of tea.

There was silence.

"When mother died, I thought: Now I'll have a death poem. That was unforgivable."

She looked at me blankly. "For God's sake Sheila, you're a writer!".

"Of romance novels, not of poetry."

"It's by Stephen Dunn."

"Oh."

Beat.

"I'm going to make myself coffee. Want some?"

"No thanks. I'm going to try to get back to sleep."

As I watched her walk toward the door, her bare legs weaving in and out of air, I thought how never had I been so turned on by a pair of unshod feet.