Sleeping with John Krasinski

He smelled like pine needles and Peter
Bondra was his favorite hockey player. His thoughts
were racked with Nader and the words he heard on
NPR, made him laugh and cry and feel anxious,
all at the same time. There was doubt there sometimes,
in his voice was too loud, blocking out some of my
thoughts, but mostly it was hidden by the light in his eyes,
bounced off of a street corner signal or the flashlight

on my keys I shined in them. He was crazy
about his mother's waffles and the way the syrup
flowed in and out of each crevice until the whole
thing was soggy and inedible to anyone else. I gave
him the rock he uses to keep his papers from flying
around his office. He told me he couldn't live without
it and I smile, because I know a stapler, or tape
dispenser or book would do, but knowing I could help

him, helped me sleep better. He wore the blue and
grey sweater I found for him at the thrift shop near
my hometown. He let me take it off slowly so
I could run my hands over his stomach and tickle
the spot near his belt line until he fell over in fits of
laughter that only I could sweep up with my broom

of straw and put the pieces neatly back in place. Once
he decided to take us East to his parent's place and he
told me my anxiety about it was cute. I told him I was
going to throw up cuteness on the floor. He didn't
think anything of me being a writer or the fact his
parents were both doctors.

He said he would surgically manipulate any flaw
I had, if it would make me feel better about the
situation, because he personally liked my large feet
and the way my right eye drooped when I was tired.
Sometimes late at night, I'd caught him watching I love
Lucy marathons, and he'd cry on my lap until my pants
were soaked with more salt than the seven seas, combined
with every sugar induced night of not sleeping. But he
needed to cry, and stuck his fingers in every sofa cushion

to find the feeling of being squeezed too tightly and
held a little to closely to crumbs that once offered a
hint of satisfaction. After though, infomercials made
their debut, he quieted down and I could hear his heavy
footsteps as they made their journey to bed. He apologized
for time lost and we made up dreaming together, heads on
shoulders. I was in love with him when he was taken
over by pasts. No one else can say the same.