the end of something

Kate and I have just quit smoking. Two days ago. Today, we repaint the apartment- try to get it back into the shape our landlord expects- back into what we projected our lives were when we moved in.

I almost smell her sweat as Kate sits down in our old recliner, but I don’t. Armpit stains are there though.

“I’m fucking tired.” She says as she plops.

I lay on the regular couch- covered in a bright blue tarp. “Yeah, me too honey.”

“Do you think we’ll finish today?”

I think to the bedroom that still needs paint- to the hall. “If we push through we might. I’m not so sure though.”

Kate gets up and walks to the couch, her body a beautiful symphony coming my way. I move my feet as she rests her ankles on my lap. She says, “I wish we weren’t painting.”

“You wish we weren’t quitting?”

“Yes and no. I know we should. But I really miss it.”

“I miss it too.” I say and caress her legs. They’re almost independently alive in my love for them- I’ve known Kate for so many years; I’m intimately familiar with all her curves. I’m intimately familiar with each piece of her.

“Come closer.” I say as I touch her. She does.

She sits up and is next to me. Her lips kiss mine. Her eyes beautiful and wide.

“This isn’t just about smoking, is it?” She asks.

“I wish it was.” I say, being completely honest.