we looked at each other from across the turkey table, surrounded by six chairs broken in degrees — wobbly legs twisted to falling off, backs that wouldn’t stand straight — and i wanted it.

he slept in the treehouse.

those mornings you awake and you know the kind of day it’s going to be, for everything that happens just as you predict it, you gain a certain satisfaction. i awoke and i knew i would go up there and that something bad forbidden untrue would happen. but i liked it.

i left my underwear on, already clinging wet to myself, and to his bed i climbed the steps, one tree twig sanded into human walkway up up up and he was underneath the sheets and i shook him and he awoke and he knew it was a bad thing to happen too and the smell was thick and hot and humid tropical

“crawl in with me” and offered the blanket up

and i came in it was autumntime cold, and we did that thing you can only refer to as “snuggling” the way bunnies do: this is the sentiment here.