He sat up on one side of the bed and she the other. Feet on a cold hardwood floor. Both naked. Chilled to the bone. A small Navajo blanket barely covered them, loosely hanging on their shoulders. They’d picked it up when they were out west, driving the Dodge around in the desert and small towns; a back seat floor covered in empty gin and vodka bottles. Now they sit, not saying a word in the early morning hours.

She turns and stares at his back. Hair in some spots. A mole or two. Black hair touching his shoulders. She starts to speak, say something, anything, but she’s afraid of it sounding forced, formulaic. She turns back and looks at the brick wall, lowers her head, and places her hands on her wobbly legs, which have grown from stems to trunks over the years. Sunlight comes through the window.

He rises and stretches his arms to the ceiling, almost let’s out a noise, then walks over to the chair with a shirt hanging from the back of it, boxers on the wicker seat, and pants wrapped around skinny wooden legs. He pulls the wool shirt over his head and steps into his underwear. He notices a snowflake or two. The windows sweat.

She gets up and puts on a long tee-shirt with a kitty on the front, dropping below her thick waist. The woman stands by the window looking outside as he walks over to the microwave and places a cup filled with water into it. She sees he has tea bags in his hand. He always uses two. She finds this wasteful.

There are still no words between them. Quiet. The bell on the microwave goes off. He dunks tea into the cup in an up and down motion. Two strings wrapped around his pointer finger. Honey is grabbed from the top shelf.

Do you want to start? She asks. He shakes his head slowly. Good, she says. Rather not talk? He nods and drinks his tea. At a card table, they sit in the morning’s silence.