Now I lay me down to sleep

I fell asleep with C and K tonight. This is the second glorious evening in a row that I have been able to read to them before bed as the previous nights have been stolen away by dress rehearsals, performances, adjudicatory notes.

Last night the three of us lay on K's bed. I had the middle so as to allow for equal opportunity and access. They brought four books to me and we read three:

Olivia (One simply cannot dislike Oliva, nor can one not help but wonder at and admire Ian Falconer's keen eye for a child's perspective).
Walter the Farting Dog (which for some reason, I cannot read without bestowing a heavy Bronx accent on the dad)
Mufaro's Beautiful Daughters (I didn't begin the story with the correct accent for the narrator- the one I always use- and so had to begin again).

We laughed loudly, our legs entangled under the warm comforter, our hearts enveloped in the presence of each other. Chopin was playing in the adjoining room. C turned off the light and climbed back into the bed next to me. K reached for a few strands of my hair to succor herself into the night. C pulled back my skin and slipped in, wrapping her arm around me. The loosening of the hold of my waist and hair, coupled with the rhythmic breathing of the two, lulled me into my own sleep.

I awakened several hours later and laid momentarily in the dark room, sweetened by their still untainted breath. Slipping from between them, I made my way upstairs where people were still awake and making preparation for the end of the day. I fell into my own bed, still sleepy but deeply satisfied.