The Morning After

The sun came in brightly through the curtains at the window.

Stanley woke up first. He lay still. He listened to the city slowly waking up outside. Birds, garbage trucks, hollerers.

Beside him, Lena stirred. She curled in on herself.

She opened her eyes.

-Morning, Stanley said.

-Morning.

She sat up. The sheet fell away. She grabbed it instantly, pulling it up to her chin.

-Coffee, she said.

-I can make it, Stanley offered.

-No. I know how I like it.

She got out of bed. She moved quickly, snatching her robe from the chair. She tied the belt tight. A double knot.

Stanley watched her go into the kitchen. He looked at the spot where she had been.

He got dressed quietly, like he didn’t belong there.

He walked into the kitchen. Lena was standing by the counter, watching the coffee pot drip. Her back was to him. Shoulders tense.

-Sleep okay? Stanley asked.

-Fine, she said.

She didn't turn around.

-Lena.

She turned then. She held her mug in both hands.

-It’s bright, she said. -I hate the morning. It’s too exposed.

-We can close the curtains.

-The light still gets in, she said. It always gets in.

She handed him a mug of hot black coffee.

-Drink up, she said. Then you probably have places to be.

He looked at her.

-I don't have anywhere to be, he said.

-Everyone has somewhere to be, she said. -Don't linger.

-I’m not.

She sipped her coffee. She looked over the rim at him.

-Okay, she said. Drink your coffee.

They stood in the kitchen. Neither of them moved to leave.