With the day’s events spinning in his head, he looks at the ceiling of the Manhattan hotel room. The lights of neon signs provide an abstract play of light and dark above. He is happy, very happy.
The down comforter is soft, but it does not help him sleep. “Woosh,” he thinks, “I am head over heels.”
He is vaguely aware of the hum and hiss of the traffic on the street below. He starts to drift of to sleep, thinking of her, enchanted by her charm and intellect.
Softly: “knock, knock, knock,” comes from the door to the adjoining room.
“Sigh,” he says to no one in particular.
He unlocks the door and finds her standing there barefoot, in a lavender camisole and orange flowered pajama bottoms.
She looks at the floor with a sheepish grin, “ I couldn’t sleep.”
“Please, Helen, come in,” he says.
He beckons her with a sweep of his arm and opens up the covers of the bed.
She scoots in to the downy bed with an almost, but not quite inaudible giggle.
He follows her and slips into bed.
He pulls her close to his chest and curls up with her, his arm over her side.
The aroma of her hair is intoxicating; he kisses the top of her head.
He murmurs, “Sweet dreams, my love.” And he thinks he can feel her smile.
Mingled with the sounds of the traffic below, he hears her breath assume the cadence of sleep. He is happy, very happy.
And side-by-side, like the ellipsis of a quotation mark, they slumber together.
3rd May 2010 4.13am
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