Two cats laze on adjacent windowsills, while the sun plays peekaboo. His bedroom faces a courtyard, and mornings here are atypically quiet for midtown. I relish it, lulled in and out of sleep by the rhythm of his breathing and the rise and fall of his chest against my back. I can see my watch on the nightstand and squeeze my eyes shut to stop time, if only for a moment.
There are never enough moments with him, never enough mornings like this. Life happens, he says. But really, what is life if not right here, right now? What do either of us have to do, where does either of us have to be, that matters more than this?
Reluctantly, I fish his hand out from under the covers and around my waist and throw my legs over the side of the bed. He stirs, the cats jump from their perch, and the sun escapes the clouds to light the room.
Where ‘ya going, babe? he mumbles, reaching out for me.
I can only kiss him softly and sigh. Some questions have no answers.