She wakes every night at three am, sits upright, convinced there's something wrong. She listens, and the house listens back. Sometimes she crawls from the bed, into the sitting room, and stares out of the windows that circle the room like a goldfish bowl. Outside snow, a bright moon, blue light reflecting off ice, it's like everything out there is underwater and she expects a whale to swim past her window. She goes back to bed, holds her husband's hot, sleeping body for comfort.
    They've been married nearly three years, and sometimes it feels like they are one, like they're running a three legged race, their middle legs tied together, and the main thing is to keep moving towards the finish and not fall over. She hugs up behind him and curls her leg over his. The thin skin covering his spine smells like the sea, and he tugs at his pillow and pushes his hips back into hers. She knows he's dreaming, dreaming like a dog - a little moan and he licks his lips - and she wonders what he dreams, and what she's wearing in his dreams, and whether her skin is tan like it was when they first met, or winter pale like it is now, beneath the white cotton nightdress that she pulls up above her thighs so she can feel the heat of him better.
    The curtains are closed, and she can't see the color of her nightdress in the dark, but it feels pure white, stripped of color, and she can't see his black hair either, the outline of his head is just a vague shadow. She knows that romance takes on a different color after a few years, soaking deeper into indigo. It doesn't come wrapped up in lace and desperate love letters any more. She strokes her hand across his chest, gently so he won't wake up, but he shifts back into her again, and she doesn't want to close her eyes in case he's not dreaming at all. There is only one of them, legs tied together, but she is short and he is tall, she is breast and he is bone, she is harvest and he is fish. He can hold his breath underwater, and as he turns and swims into her, their skins slide against each other, no friction, but just enough.



About the author:
Tania is a freelance journalist from London. Her fiction/essays have appeared in publications including South Dakota Review, The Bitter Oleander, Carve Magazine, Wild Strawberries, Duck & Herring Pocket Field Guide, Yankee Pot Roast, The God Particle, Salt River Review, and the short fiction anthology Harlot Red (Serpent's Tail). She hosts 'Writers on Radio', broadcast on stations including the NPR-affiliate KRZA and streamed online, which is basically just an excuse to chat with excellent writers and solicit their writing tips. So far it's worked.

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