That Damn Sweater
It was light out but not loud out yet. It was early morning, but not quite morning yet. You woke up, still mid-way through a dream, and rolled over. I felt your shoulder blade press against the little bit of shoulder I could offer and then it hovered over me like a mama bear hovers over a baby bear. Your arm followed, draping over my torso like a curtain, and your hand found my sleepy hand and gave it its own little embrace.
You were bare chested, but I was wearing a sweater. I wanted to feel your skin. I wanted to feel you press into my skin so that my muscles felt your muscles. I wanted the heart in your chest to stamp my heart with its rhythm.
But alas, that damn sweater. So instead, I felt your warmth spread, first over my sweater, and then through it. The warmth gave me the energy to squeeze your hand with mine, making our hand holding go from a loose embrace to a passionate clasp.
I blinked once. It wasn't morning yet. I blinked again. More slowly this time. Was it too late to take my sweater off? I blinked thrice.