Fishing in Beirut

They lay in bed together. Softness. She felt his breath against her right cheek, and moved closer. Was he sleeping or not?
“Michel?” she intoned gently, not wishing to wake him if he was sleeping, seeking a response if he was not.
“Hmmm,” he murmured.
She got up for a glass of water. The sound of the tap. It touched her lips in coolness, the water from the tap, and in her mouth, in her throat, was the liquid joy of living. The fullness and the peace, and the mystery of drinking water.
She returned to him. Pulled the sheet over her body, their bodies, and lay still. She thought of that junk TV, sitting in an old box in the living room, and it probably wouldn’t even work when she tried to plug it in. Why she took it she couldn’t say. That poor old man, Boulier, his leathery face and calming foyer touch. His paternal grace.
“Bonjour Mademoiselle, il fait beau aujourd’hui, non?” His laugh, and his fingers on her wrist.
Karen cried there in bed, the Monday morning news of his death absorbing up to this point, and now being accepted. The tears released the pain. She cried on this Wednesday afternoon, and Michel slept alongside, his easy nasal breathing a partner to her sobs.