Nobody has sex.

[some-stars.livejournal.com]

Furthermore, nobody's even gay. I suck at this game.

Back when she was married, Stella used to watch Ray get dressed and pretend she was asleep. Not on ordinary mornings; on ordinary mornings they were both in a rush, her more than him most often, swallowing coffee before it could cool and licking at her burnt lips all the way to work. But when he pulled the night shifts, he set his alarm for one AM and wrapped it in a washcloth so it wouldn't wake her up, over on the other side of the bed. It always did wake her up, but she never told him because she liked how it worked.

The muffled beeping, soft and birdy, would prod her out of sleep. She'd mutter and squirm, rolling over towards his side as he stumbled out of it. With her eyes half open, she'd watch the process. He started out half-asleep--more than half. Ninety percent asleep, maybe, just enough brain awake to poke him hard and get him on his feet. Stumbling across the floor to the dresser, he'd come down with heavy, thudding footsteps, his legs stiff at the knee. The undershirt came off, if he was wearing one, if it wasn't summer, and then he got dressed. Stella was absolutely fascinated every time his fingers attacked the buttons on the crisp linen. At the top button he'd slip and lose it and swear so quietly she only knew it was swearing by the tone. By the bottom few, though, his hands moved quickly. Every morning he learned all over again.

She'd never told him about those mornings. She wouldn't have known what to say. 'I like watching you yawn, the way you jam your wrists against your eyes. How you stumble into your pants. How you're so quiet for me.' Ray was silent often but never quiet. If he was moving he was noisy. Except on the night shift mornings, when he wanted more than anything not to wake her up. She kept it up for a long time after the regular mornings turned bad. He wrapped the clock in a washcloth, right up to the end.