kitchen night

We spent the night on the floor in the kitchen. The wind had blown out the electricity. It happened a lot out there. A swift gust or two and a branch falls across a power line and three townships go black. She suggested we drag out a mattress from the bedroom and stoke the wood burning stove, so we did. I don’t remember if we made love; we might have. I don’t remember her skin on mine, either, though I desperately want to. Or maybe it’s better this way, not to. I do remember the dark and the warmth and feeling her breathing and her back against my chest as I pulled her against the cold and against our loneliness. It was cold when we woke. Different. Still without power. Or that way for the first time, perhaps, now.