Lullaby.

That summer, in the late evenings, after an hour of anxious tossing, chasing sleep across the pages of a John Irving novel, she’d turn her pillow over, dial his number, and set the phone against her ear.

And on the nights he could make it home in time, he’d answer - hear her pull the sheets up underneath her chin, humming, softly, more often than not, the song she’d want him to sing – and he’d begin.

moon river
wider than a mile
i’m crossing you in style
one day

oh dream maker
you heart breaker
wherever you’re going
i’m going your way

two drifters
off to see the world
there’s such a lot of world to see
we’re after the same rainbow’s end
it’s just around the bend
my huckleberry friend
moon river and me

Sometimes, as they made their good-nights, she’d mention that maybe she should get around to seeing that movie. But the dreams that would follow, that filled her head so inevitably soon afterward, would displace the resolution - one that she never had any intention of keeping.

Long after she’d hung up, he’d trace small circles on the back of the receiver with his thumb and mutter to himself the things he would remember to say the next time he’d see her - he would remember the next time. He would.

And after a minute, he'd put the phone up, and turn, and open, and stare into the empty fridge.

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