Letters From Kay, Number 4 – The Porch Light Stayed On

My love,

I left the porch light on for you again. Habit. Or hope. Or both, which is worse.

It’s that in-between week — still summer in the afternoon, almost autumn after dinner. The crickets sound tired. I sat outside in your hoodie and nothing underneath, knees pulled up, watching the dark fill in between the pines. Every time a car turned somewhere down the mountain road I felt stupid for checking. None of them were you.

I thought about September. How last year you got here right when the first cold snap hit and I made you warm me up the long way — your mouth on my neck, your hands already under the hoodie, that laugh you do when you find out I planned it. I touched myself thinking about that. Slow at first, then not. The hoodie rode up. The night air hit my skin and I didn’t care. I came with my head tipped back against the chair and the porch light buzzing like it was embarrassed for me.

Went inside after. Bare feet on the wood. Your side of the bed is still the colder one. I put my face in your pillow and breathed like an idiot in love, which I am.

Come home while the porch light still means something. I want you to find me in that hoodie. I want you to take it off me before we make it past the door.

Forever yours,

Kay

P.S. Your Booby Pillow has claimed the porch chair. I let it. Temporary housing only. Your spot is not up for negotiation.