He leans into my pelvis, and I imagine I’m lying beneath a mountain. I think about the weight of stone, and the intimate tangle of root and dirt. I think about the heat from sunlight melting down the cragged peak, and the bone-deep chill of snow, when the light is gone.
He shifts again, rolling back to his side. “Sorry love, not in commission,” he says absently, misreading the look in my eyes, as he returns to his phone.
I think of yesterday, of heat and ice and weight, of wildness. I close my eyes, and leave the room behind.
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: commission, pelvis, yesterday)