Call of the White

The moon is in front of the window just outside the terrace door. Its glow coats the living room. The light wakes Bettina, it pulls her from her bed. Slowly, with reluctant waking eyes, she drifts from the bedroom and can see her living room lit with a white glow, as if she had left on a lamp. She follows the glow, walks through it, her feet rasping against the rough kilm rug, the window pulls her closer so she can see the full moon hanging, aiming its light directly through the window. A soft column of white reflects in the river below. It looks like a path leading to the moon, a direct route to the satellite orb.
Bettina goes out onto the terrace for a better view. Out there on the terrace the air is rich with the breath of trees, the scent of squirrels and skunks and raccoons.
What can be better than this, she wonders. How can the outdoor creatures be so lucky. Why do we humans stay inside? What can be gained by that?
It’s cold out on the terrace, but the white chilled light soothes her. She stands in the moon’s presence, in the open air, 8 floors up, engulfed with black night the way the birds do it and squirrels and skunks and night cats, face to face with the moon, enveloped by that narrow slip of atmosphere where breathing is allowed, held gingerly by gravity to the edge of the earth. The moon stands by. Silent. It doesn’t waste sound, suspended by movement and mysterious invisible matter, giving negative as much power as all positive, tangible presences.
Bettina sits down in the moonglow. She lets it drown her eyes, bathe them from back to front, stroke the lashes, splash her face, whoosh into the ears, drip into skin pores, meet with capillaries, douse organs, flush glands, permeate and encapsulate her. And her hair is teased and filled with moon, it energizes each follicle, shakes the skull, massages her brain.
It seems not so cold anymore. The moon can do that…make you feel like the only woman on earth, like the moon’s only date.

Back in bed, resting, finally, she closes her eyes and lets herself be still, feel still, and in the stillness, her body settles like an old house in the cool night after a day in the heat. Twitches snap here and there. The heel of her foot, her shoulder, a creak in her jaw, a fluttering thigh muscle. She feels herself coming to rest and letting her guard down, letting her bones sit so they can stop holding her up. Her muscles release letting their tension go. She imagines her impression on the mattress as it sinks deeper fully at rest. Her mind still moves though, still wheels and deals, still plans and anticipates, still ties in knots for the smallest things.