Pillow talk between the very pregnant woman and her pale lover, both covered in tattoos, on the beach across the tracks by the brewery at sunset
He is talking about libraries and what they meant to him when he was younger. Every day in the summer, with his mother, whatever he wanted to know was there before him, at his touch. Papercut.
I grew up like that too.
She has her eyes closed, one hand on her swollen belly, feet reached past her towel, heels resting in the toasted sand from the afternoon. Today was hot. She hums lightly with a smile, once in a while, to let him know she's listening.
The sand dries from my once damp arms, trickles off like snow back to its kind. Four women by the water watch the sunset -- it is a fiery purple. The Champlain washes their feet and forgives them.
He hasn't stopped talking this whole time.
I want to put my hand on my belly, lie beside him, and hum once in a while.
I can learn from them:
-How to talk to one another