Steam spirals up from her cup, curling like incense. Morning sun paints the room as a child would a treasure trove and it strikes me that this can’t be real and absolutely has to be: somehow, quite easily, even her morning coffee, untouched on the bedside table, is beautiful.
The frost at the window is receding and she’s shifting in the sheets and talking about a walk. We’ll go somewhere, someplace new, but first we’ll drink coffee and fool around and shower together. Some days, Sundays, stood in the doorway, watching the steam spiral, I boggle at what trick of time and space and luck and fate, what raw mathematics, placed this woman in my bed.
I'm dizzy again, but slow moving morning words wake me up; she wants to know what’s wrong. Dumb, I just smile and shrug, she says "come here ya wacker," and I do.