One D.O.A., One on the Way

He eases out of the sheets, and sits on the side of the bed. In the dim, his bare chest shines and his boxer shorts blink the whitest white. Neither of us used to sleep through 'til morning. We would take naps together, at this time of night. We would wake up and play around, put on music, drink, go back to sleep, awaken. We'd have whiskey in tea, and sweet potato muffins. Hit channel thirty,'' he tells me now. Outside the room are powdery-white hallways, arched doors, a carved staircase. It would seem an enormous, lovely house where you could sit in an alcove on a bench and read, but it isn't. I turn down the TV volume and switch around in my seat. ''O.K., this is thirty. What are we tuning in?'' ''Like you're staying,'' he says. There is work waiting for me, true. Work that'll keep me busy tonight, some of tomorrow. Work, though, that I would rather not go and do. Longing and resentment. Some of both in the way my husband is stamping his cigarette.