But when she wakes—oh, when she wakes. That is the part of Jules that you want to be around. That is the time that you want to see. My Jules—and I don’t think she would mind if I called her my Jules (in fact she would probably like it)—my Jules was the Jules of the morning, of little notes that she left on my pillow—and of sunlight. She was brushing teeth in the morning and doing yoga Jules. She was arranging the flowers Jules and checking her email Jules. She couldn’t start her day without checking email. And I always keep fresh flowers in the kitchen. Jules would arrange them. They’re in a vase, she just likes to prop them up and make sure the best petals are facing forward.
My Jules was the morning Jules of sunlight and errands and Saturday mornings..all day to be together until her evening show. After the show we’d meet for drinks at the Uno’s near the theatre. The crew would get wild, the cast would have a few drinks. Mostly me and Jules just went home. Everyone says "bye" and waves us off of the bar, and assumes we’re right about to have sex, as soon as we leave, as soon as we get home..and me and Jules leave, her arms around my waist, my arm around her neck. And we did have sex, pretty much right when we got home. Sometimes sooner.
But the next morning, Jules would be up, folding the clothes that we’d scattered around, hanging my shirts up in the closet. I’d wake and see her doing that—standing at the closet, hanging up even shirts that didn’t need to be hung up..or standing there, looking in my mirror, pivoting her body so that she could see her leg. She’d smooth her waist..run her fingers along the inside leg of her underwear, making it fit right. Then put ties in her hair.
If I woke up first, though, I would sit halfway up and look at her. I’d look at her face. That’s my favorite part about her, I think. Of her body.
She’d know I was watching her. She’d know it before she was awake. She’d move her hand, or bend her leg, or grab my waist before she opened her eyes to let me know it.
You know: some things you remember. Some things you don’t. That’s the sad thing about a lot of these stories we tell ourselves: a lot of it is made up. Did the sun glint in her eyes? Did she stretch? I don’t know. I remember some of her stretches..but not all. She didn’t snore—not really. It was this quiet purring sound. She slept on her right side. But—you know—like what position her hands were in when she slept..I don’t remember. Maybe because it wasn’t always the same, maybe because I’m a bad boyfriend..I don’t know. I am a bad boyfriend..but not because I don’t remember Jules’s hand position when she slept..just because I am. Mostly she would sleep with her hands on me.
"You like to cuddle."
"Yeah, I do."
"I like that you hold me."
I’d hold her tighter then.
"Some people..they just..they sleep beside you. You hold me. I didn’t know I’d like that. I do."
"Well tell me if it’s too constricting—"
"It’s not," she’d say. "It’s just right." Then she’d squeeze me hard.