since seven’s an odd even

“one thing at a time,” she says, reminding, reprimanding—funny, how she always finds the task that’s most demanding. last week it was “look me only in the eyes”; before that, a week without whisperwhite lies. why her waves are weeklong, i have never tried to ask. sometimes, i think there’s something about seven down in the heart of her every task.

i watch her, and remember when she first proposed we—crack. her knuckles bring me back. right. one thing. i watch her. i watch her, eyes half-closed, trying to turn background into blur. i try, sincerely, to not even hear her purr. i succeed enough that she smiles. we stay this way for quite a while, she not-quite-still, swaying like a charmer’s snake, and i on the other side of the bed, channeling watch, ignoring my head and my ache.

near week’s end i catch the kensho, sevenfolded and sublingual and sublime. she sees it happen, starts to say what’s next. i touch her lips, say, “wait. this, first, now. one thing at a time.”

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