The Interruption

She comes home in a signified portion of night, when sleep has worn off for the first time and the second part of its closing sets in.  For him it is a moment of preeminent interruption, and a dire worry about invasion and loss. The result is a pulling of what may never come home again, a shift away from light, a salvation in the attended body. He knows he will dream this again in the second half of his night, repeating again and again, “mediawhoresonline, mediawhoresonline,” turning this address over the unconscious palate like a bad meal set against the churn of sleep. But the interruption is never fatal.  And she dials into bed so tired and blue that the myth of disruption never really takes hold in the directions of his mind. He dreams it all in the second half, despite this.  The dream says to him, “Love is an interruption.”