7 / by Camila Bernal

I woke up before you this morning. The night before we clumsily built our tent in the darkness, the waterfall rumbled loudly and we couldn’t see past the few feet our camping headlights illuminated. I wanted to set up camp closer to the beginning of the trail, I was afraid of the impending darkness after dusk, but you said “let’s keep going a bit further” and you encouraged me to go forth, you talked me past scary climbs and slippery rocks, you were there the whole time, you carried my weight, you held my hand, you’ve always been brave bordering on reckless. I woke up before you this morning. I stared at you sleep, cocooned inside your sleeping bag, hair greasy and mouth slightly open. I slipped out of the tent quietly. We were surrounded by walls of rock, we were so alone with the exception of the giant cactus that stood guard, tall and ancient. It was cold under the shade so I made my way across the stream to a patch of sand already blessed with the warmth of the morning sunlight. I grabbed our gas stove and boiled water from the stream, I slipped off my clothes and with a canteen cup I bathe. I woke up before you this morning. When you arose, you found me naked on a blanket. We exchanged few words, you sparked the stove and took a bath. I looked at you stretch, much like I had done for over 7 years, you felt me photographing you but you ignored the camera, much like you had done for over 7 years. We made love, we ate, we packed up our tent. I woke up before you this morning.