There is a cabin in the woods with a long, low, tired couch and little flecks of glitter in the linoleum. Above the white kitchen counter and the sink is a window, through which can be seen bare trees guarding a cold, misty lake in the winter. In the summer the trees envelop the cabin and the lake in cool darkness, obscuring each from the other. This morning I can see the lake through the naked trees, down the hill, and above my coffee cup. The sky is the color of concrete, though it fades to blue as it approaches the horizon. The bare arms of the trees traverse this lonely line in their continual quest for the sun. I shiver and draw my blanket around my shoulders, I curl my toes against the cold.

Glancing back, I see that Ted has fallen asleep again, after a short trek from the bed to the couch. I shift my focus of meditation from the horizon to his fluttering eyelids. He feels me watching him and opens his eyes.

"Coffee, here." I offer him his cup. His is black, and I hand him a packet of sugar as well. He sits up slowly, as if he had never done so before and is wary of the unfamiliar act. He takes his coffee, contemplates it. We have all the time in the world in this cabin. I have never felt in such command of the passing hours.

Motioning for him to make space for me, I lay my body down next to his. It's early, the sun is about to rise, or is rising, or has just risen. I can't tell; the clouds obscure it. I curl my whole being around Ted's warmth and the warmth of the coffee. When we die, I think mournfully, we will no longer create warmth or feel it. I turn this idea over a few times, savoring its simple gravity. But not to worry, we have all the time anyone could ever need. Thus comforted, I let it go, moving on through my forest of thoughts. I contemplate my great fears, which seem about as terrifying as cheesey old Godzilla movies as I'm lying here in unhurried contentment. When I was a kid I would never go on a diving board for fear that I would falter, that at the moment I was about to jump my knees would buckle, and I would fall in knees-first, and scrape the tops of my feet on the rough grip-tape of the board. Loneliness and the fear of continued loneliness grip me sometimes with a black hand, and my mind is full of sunless, airless, cold thoughts, and the thought of dying alone presses me from every direction, and I think of Laika, the Russian dog that they launched into space, though they knew she could never be retrieved. But I can be retrieved, and I am, brought back by the feel of Ted's breath on the top of my head. I tell him about these fears and he takes a moment to consult the sugary dregs of his coffee before assuring me that I won't be launched into space, or scrape my feet, or die soon, or alone, or unloved. He kisses the top of my head before getting up to go look more closely at things outside my field of vision.

I roll over into the indentation left in the couch by that body that is so precious to me, but the fading of the remnant heat compels me to get up, seeing as I stand a card I had given Ted a few months ago, containing the Björk lyric, "As much as I absolutely enjoy solitude, I wouldn't mind perhaps spending a little time with you."

I think about what we'll do later, Ted driving to town to work on some landscaping, me walking to work mid morning. I only work a half shift today at a gas station that also sells ice cream and tackle. The sign on the door says, "Home of Superman!" but it refers only to an ice cream flavor. At night I'll go to a tiny bar down the road to drink with some friends, and then walk home with a bit of a stumble and slip into bed next to Ted again. There's a lot of empty time in this plan today. I'll probably spend it skipping stones on the lake. I'll bundle up in a big scarf and a hat and coat, even though it's not that cold. I love going down to the lake to watch the orange sun burn down into the cool, impervious water. After it disappears, then I'll go out and enjoy the predictability of comfort and the unpredictability of everything else.

But all that is later. Now it's still early and I'm here with Ted, which is how I like it. I look at his back, its shape obscured in places by the thin blanket. I have no idea what he's thinking about right now. I venture a few guesses: Fishing? The coffee? A letter he's gotten, or will send? Death? He turns around and I am looking into the horizon of his eyes. Over his shoulder is the real horizon, behind him. His eyes are the color of where the sky meets the earth.