Ruth waking Rachel

I came into the room, quiet
except for her slumbering breathing,
the afternoon light falling in stripes
upon the cushions of the hotel sofa
and across her body.
Her head was motionless against
the pillow, her eyelids thin, veiling those
searching eyes, now resting, dreaming.
Of what? I wondered, my gaze
traveling the outline of her relaxed form
that muffled a heartbeat, slow and steady.
Her book lay open across her middle, the spine crushed
beneath a limp hand, discarded as sleep had overcome her.
It was my duty to wake her now, to remind her of an
appointment, to rouse her back to the afternoon, to
separate her mind from that dream.
I stood and watched for as long as I dared, until the
floor creaked under my heel. I reached out and
lay my palm on her arm, against the skin I had
imagined would be smooth and soft and warm.
I ran my fingers back and forth against that skin,
softly saying her name, until the eyelids fluttered
and her eyes—those majestic, unnerving eyes, still in
dreams but finding my face, and recognizing—smiled.
I spoke and the spell was broken, the moment gone.
But I had to speak.