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It’s 3:16 a.m. Earlier there was thunder, and later there will be thunder again. I can’t sleep, so I’m staring at the smooth curve of Joey’s shoulder. Which I don’t mind; she has a beautiful shoulder -- hell, she has a beautiful everything -- but if I’m going to be staring at her shoulder at 3:16 on a Monday morning, I should be doing something with her shoulder other than just staring at it. She needs sleep, though, so I won’t disturb her. Not that I don’t need sleep, too, but -- Christ, listen to me. No wonder I drive Josh crazy.

I’m not sure what woke me, but I know damned well what’s keeping me up now. This thing, this thing that happened tonight that I can’t get out of my head. This thing like a ghost. Like thunder you hear in your sleep.

We were at this basketball game, and Joey yelled her head off at every call, every play -- being Deaf actually encourages her to be loud and abrasive, since she’s not at all self-conscious about how she sounds to anyone else.

At half-time we hit the concession stand, where Joey demanded popcorn, and the kid working the counter turned around to fill the bag, and while he had his back to us he asked if she wanted butter. Of course she didn’t hear, so I signed it to her, and she shook her head no, but before I could tell him, she signed, "But I’d love to see that ass slathered in butter."

You know what my first reaction was? What I desperately wanted to say? "I love you." My girlfriend made an obscene comment about the ass of a sixteen-year-old boy, and my automatic reaction was to tell her I love her. There was just something about the look on her face when she did it, something impish that reminded me she’s not always the strait-laced professional she wants everyone -- even me -- to perceive her as.

But then the kid turned back around with the popcorn, and I remembered that we work in the White House, and that we were standing in a highly public place, so I just smiled at her and let my fingers brush hers when I handed over the bag. She grinned back, looking a little like a fox, and popped a huge handful of popcorn into her mouth, and I had to laugh at how young she looked. I flicked a kernel off her shirt, and she threw a couple of pieces at me, and for a minute it was like being back in high school. Remember the way high school relationships were easy and fun and didn’t have to be secret in any way? And I thought it was enough just to love her; that I didn’t have to say it.

And now it’s 3:17 a.m., and earlier there was thunder, and later there will be thunder again, and all I can think of is how I didn’t tell her. She’s sound asleep with her back to me, and I won’t be able to sleep until I say it. So I say it. Because she haunts me. "Joey, I love you."

I must have fallen asleep, because now it’s 4:38 a.m. and the alarm’s going to go off in twenty two minutes. I’m still staring at Joey’s shoulder, but it takes me a minute to realize that now I’m staring at the front of Joey’s shoulder, and that her eyes are open, glittering in the moonlight, watching me.

I feel her hand on my arm. .... --- ..- ... . ... .... --- --- -.- House shook.

Sometimes, Joey’s just too tired to speak. And sometimes it’s the middle of the night and too dark for her to read my lips and we can’t see each other’s hands move to sign. So we taught ourselves the letters and numbers of Morse Code, for when it’s 4:38 and the moon isn’t enough light to see anything by, taught ourselves what it feels like against our skin. It’s our third language, tapped out on the surfaces of each other’s bodies, messages mapped into the flesh.

I push the sheet off her shoulder and brush her arm lightly. - .... ..- -. -.. . .-. Thunder. I think she nods.

- .. -- . Time?

....- ...-- ----. 4:39

She laughs without a sound. If she were awake enough to speak, or if I could see her sign, it would be something sarcastic like, "Plenty of time," but that’s too much effort for Morse Code.

I run my hand up and down her arm, and her breathing slows and deepens, lulling me back towards sleep, as well. But my hand keeps moving, almost of its own accord, starts to tap again, and I’m halfway through the "v" before I realize what I’m doing. I freeze, but my hand is a traitor and starts to move again before my breath can recover, before my heart can remember how to beat again. My hand moves because a sixteen-year-old boy still haunts me.

.. .-.. --- ...- . -.-- --- ..- I love you.

When the alarm screams at 5:00, I swear in a manner that would impress Josh a great deal -- he thinks I’m such a nice girl -- and hit the clock with probably excessive violence, then fumble for the light switch. There’s an inarticulate grunt from my left, and I turn my head to smile at her. Morning, Joey, I sign.

You are cruel, she replies, covering her head with a pillow that I yank away so she has nowhere to hide. She raises her head to look at me, and I find I have to look away, because there’s something in her eyes that wasn’t there last night; something I can’t read and am unsure I want to, but she reaches out and raises my chin so I have nowhere to hide. "Donna," she says clearly, and I swallow hard. Then she turns my hand over and her fingers move across my palm.

.. .-.. --- ...- . -.-- --- ..- - --- --- I love you too.

I hear the thunder that Joey can’t. The storm rumbles outside my window, and her message is there. And the thunder is mapped into my flesh.