My cute wife

I just shared.
Shared what?
The ----inger.
The vinegar?
Your finger.
My finger?
Mmhmm.

Something adorable and sad at the same time—watching your wife talk in her sleep. She’s so helpless in the conscious world. Unable to express her abstractions into something linear. You fight the instinct to ask more questions because you know she’s dead tired but you also haven’t said all the words you intended to say tonight. Your mind is teeming with ideas and all you can get out of her is a slumbered mumble. Somehow it’s enough. Let her continue her conversation with fairies and trolls.
You watch her a while.
There’s a hair on her face and she wrinkles her nose and brings her hand up to scratch it. Already there’s a faint crease across her face where she’s laid against the seam of a pillow. Her body rises and falls in rhythm. It’s so simple and perfect. You wish you could somehow reach into her dreams and walk hand in hand across the desert landscape of her mind. You wonder which recurring character is on stage now—what kind of dialogue they must be having. And you suddenly get very jealous that she’s having this charming conversation. All you got was a couple lines about sharing and vinegar or something.
You kiss her cheek. “Love you,” she whispers.