Waking Up

You know, the sun was sliding across his face, like it does every morning. Today, the solar caress of faded light fell perfectly between his gray and gold whiskers, scattered across his face like dried pine needles on the forest floor, filling the valley of his lips, an angelic creek even. So, he was particularly beautiful then and for a second, I thought he was dead. His belly raised slowly. Dust settled in the sun.

In this moment, I felt something. It had been a while since I felt anything. I put my hand to my chest. I thought I would feel something there. I thought I would feel my heart racing, remembering something forgotten or at least something important. I held a dull thud in my palm. I could only feel it between breaths. I waiting for more, but only this faint rattling, barely audible, even to touch. 'Nothing, it's nothing.' He lay there all the while. My hand fell. He rolled over toward the sun. 'What, was it?'

I approached the window. Children played in the street. Yes. Children, playing some invented game. In the window, I began to see my reflection. It's true, I have aged. Not as much as some. My hair still shines. The strange irony I learned was the less you smile, the less wrinkles you get. So, I had developed a habit of stifling my smile to protect my beauty. I would say it worked. I am beautiful, or at least he tells me every, single day. He says, "You are beautiful." and then, "I'm the luckiest man in the world." Afterwards, I don't say anything because he kisses me on the lips anyway.

Then I left the bedroom.