Abigail M. Schilling

Early in the morning I hear you come in. You open the door and just peek your head in for a moment before closing the door and going back to laundry. I'm never awake enough to open my eyes and look at you. But I want to. I used to watch you sleep, too.

When we were in college you would always fall asleep studying. Every night in the library in the northwest corner where you had the best view of the quad. I'd wait for you outside, where we were supposed to meet, and eventually come in looking for you and there you would be, asleep. Sometimes you were softly snoring and I gave apologetic glances to the other students. I always found it endearing.

They ask me what love is. And all I can say is that you make me want to try all those things that seem way too risky. You let me forget that life is a joke. You let me forget all the reasons I've got against you. You let me forget everything else.

But only for a moment. As I closed the door, I could see you in the dark, the outline of your body a silhouette through the shoulder and down, in the doorway in the hall.