swish swoosh

It was still, as only a third floor, in late day, of the first heat wave, could be – only us, as horizontally soundless as astronauts, dreaming, mid-flight, of their earthly beds. You, conning sleep, me, unblinking, at a window of snowy blackout curtains, smuggling sun through its cleavage, awash in cool tones. Three tics for every fifth revolution is the only conversation, between a ceiling fan and me and you. Our bodies, an arrangement of waiting. For it to bifurcate the thickness around us. Into something resembling cold cream. Something else more closely related. To outer space or deep sea or hypopnea or onomatopoeia.