When he thinks I’s sleepin’.
When he thinks I don’t hear him for being so exhausted from tendin’ to the baby, who got a bad case of the colic.
But I hear him, his big bare feet slidin’ over the floor boards in the hall and the click a’his nails, grown long.
When he come back to bed in the mornin’, his hair a right mess with brambles, there’s somethin’ sticky, dark, an’ thick in his beard, an’ his breath smell like old meat.
I try not to wonder who made him a meal this time.