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The sun was already up, dust motes chasing each other across the shaft
of sunlight peeking through the boardingroom's curtains, the rod of light
brought to a dead halt by a ceramic pitcher in its bowl. Graham rubbed
his crusty eyes and felt around for the leather pouch with his tobacco
and papers in it, rolled a cigarette. His wife still slept beside
him, in just her shift. She always looked so much tinier without
the petticoats and all the other extraneous clothing that Graham could
never understand.
He lit up, watching the smoke rise and swirl as his spirits remained hovering somewhere about the floor, like so much valley mist. She had taken him in the middle of the night. His dreams had been filled with the soft smile and even softer flesh of another woman, about how her eyes sparkled and her mind flared like a bonfire on the lonely prairie. About how she could make him laugh like he hadn't in many years. And as if by wish, she was holding him, kissing him, handling him, and his need for her grew, both inside and out. Hands had taken his tool and the thought of her touching him brought both peace and arousal, and he had smiled into the night. The realization came, though, that it couldn't possibly be her; a thousand miles of stagecoach ride had ensured that. His eyes had popped open, and he found the woman he dutifully married climbing upon him. The sorrow softened him, but not enough, for she did not notice, and kept going until she was done. To be unhurtful, he had gone through the motions, though sadness gripped his heart. So now he was left alone in his thoughts, untouched by the morning sun. Guilt, sorrow, aching loneliness were wrapped about him like blankets, and he felt as though he could not arise from the bed. |