Comfort

The fire has died down to a soft glow while the rain whips against the windows. Eric’s house is drafty but he insists that it is too old to properly insulate. I think he likes it that way. We’re on the floor where he’s piled several rugs as his adaptation to winter time. He’s leaning back against my chest, reading Swann’s Way out loud. That has to be the most boring book on the whole fucking planet, but I ignore the story and concentrate on the soothing rising and falling cadence of his voice. My fingers shift slowly through his long hair, and the crisp texture of it fascinates me. My wine glass is empty and I think lazily that I should get up and refill both glasses, but I’m too bloody comfortable.

I never thought that I’d be listening to Proust and drinking wine. Maybe Dave was right and Eric is civilizing me. I shift him against me drowsily, not really caring, my eyes closing as things go fuzzy around the edges.