Quietly I rest.

The soft, tan sheets smell fresh.

It's Monday or Tuesday, sometime in early afternoon. From outside my window, automobiles slide along wet pavement. Listening closely, each sounds like a small jet off on it's own unique journey.

I meditate on their rhythm. I try to guess their size and speed. I imagine their color and each driver's mission. She is running another thankless errand for an unsympathetic family. He is alone in the world, chasing fleeting thrills at the matinee. They are silent, each smarting from the harsh half truths that only a lover can level.

I've been there - attending to the day's myriad chores, treading its emotional surf - and will again, but another day. For now, I welcome the undiluted moment.

Let me doze...

The walls are blue and the ceiling white. Cool light filters through calm cotton blinds and a great, persistent stillness holds the room, my bed, the lazy plants, the slumbering cat.

A ceiling fan, achingly tired, ruffles the air.

At last my skin is dry. At last I sleep without tossing. At last my head feels clear and photographs come into sharp focus. I stretch to full length then easily recoil to my favorite position. Oxygen and blood circulate. I clutch my pillow, curl still more tightly and smile.

Beyond the peeling paint, beyond the half-hung door, naked feet ascend stairs. They are my other feet.

He half enters the room, lodging like a prostitute against the doorframe. Beltless jeans flatter his long body. He watches me, feeding on a bowl of overly sweetened Cheerios.

He's angry, or was; not with me but with life.

Eternally a boy, rage is his friend and first response to fear. Fight beats flight and usually wins over reason. He nearly killed the guy who accidentally knocked me down at last year's Halloween party.

Sometimes I frighten him. Life and death frighten him.

Yes, we contrast. I manage problems; he castrates their causes. I tolerate; he recriminates. I accept reality; he dreams of new worlds. Though often at odds, I look at him today and cherish our differences. One's strengths fit the other's weaknesses.

The bowl descends, nudging alarm and change tray aside. Still transfixed, he offers a reluctant and most subtle grin. It's barely more inviting than a frown but the scales have tipped. Even burrowed deep in the folds of our bed, he sees I am stronger.

Still, relief is masked by the confusion that follows a slap - an astonishment mellowed by fatigue. As this threat abates, exhaustion visibly envelops my weary partner. The strain, the sleepless nights, the helplessness all show in his eyes and on his face.

Uncertainty and unacceptable options cast a pall over that young man. He replied with bravery but a toll was paid. This was his first real scare. Sadly, I've been here before.

Maturity wrinkles the soul even as it adds depth. The abrasions hurt but toughen. I feel ironically maternal, watching my little one - six years my senior - evolve before me.

Though fit, the smallest organism tirelessly works to dissect him. That I rise and fall in the same battle is cold water to my naked partner. In shock, he will emerge more ready for the truths that face us.

Here's fact: We are together, not alone, and we are joined by a world confronting the same threats and fears; a world embracing the same small triumphs and pleasures.

From behind my sleepy eyes he sees I welcome his strength. He descends toward me as gracefully as lanky strides permit. He rolls onto the bed's edge then nestles backward into my warm body's curvature. An arm moves forward, wrapping around his lean torso.

Caressing his lightly furred chest, stomach, I reassure my quiet partner that we're again one, again whole. New distance, excavated by doubt, separates our touching bodies. New bonds, forged by anguish, anchor our independent souls. It's all about change, all about constancy. Curious.

In unison, my man and I breathe deeply and exhale, then drift.