It is different in Kate's house. She and I are. In her house, I see her walk naked down the hallway to the kitchen and then into the bathroom. I watch her swirl coffee creamer in her cup with a finger, collect our towels from the bathroom floor. Every morning this week she has made me eggs: scrambled, then fried, omelettes, poached, and then on Friday there's French toast, which I know isn't an egg dish but it's close enough. She has three papers delivered every morning. I read the first sections of all. She is so unguarded that it's as though I've met a new woman.
She was dicing peppers, an onion for our omelette on Wednesday when she said, "This could seriously go on and on." Or maybe she didn't. Maybe it was something else but that's what I made it.
In my apartment, we are lovers fully dressed with only buttons and zippers undone. We are against walls, on the couch, the floor, away from the bedroom. We are record times in silence. She comes when she stops breathing, squeezes the back of my neck, her face in the wall or my shoulder.
But here it is different.