She closed her eyes. This curious night was as all other nights one in which she would wake up alive in the morning. It was her anniversary. Her husband's foot got in her way, brushing up against her wearied body. She moved over to the left side of the bed, to a little corner where she felt safe and happy, if one could call sharing a bed with this stranger happiness. His loud breath kept her awake most nights, an incessant snoring she had never grown accustomed to. From time to time a train rumbled in the distance, carrying with each vibration a hope for escape, even if that meant death. In time she would fall asleep and dream of another man, one she longed to know more than she did. The scent of his breath, of his body, of his hair, reminded her of days yet to come. They consumed her, and she could do nothing to shake the powerful urges from her soul. Tonight she would remain untouched and unsullied, but her soul would dance behind her closed eyelids wishing that the child with the white woolen winter hat belonged to him, the grey fox she called Dad. Shyly, she had let the man have his way with her and secretly she took pleasure standing naked on the brambled path as he lifted her skirt. That night she became his. Tonight, she would have to take pleasure envisioning the man who was capable of awakening her with his roughness. With any rape fantasies tucked aside, the woman was slow to sink into the depths of sleep. In her dreams she placed her leg upon his, trembling, her cheeks wet with tears, waiting and wanting to come home.
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