The Passage of An Hour

4:30 AM.[/b] Her eyes snapped open, sharp and awake. Sitting up, she can see the pitch black outside her window. Evidently, she had beaten the sun awake.

Damn insomnia.

Staring to her right she glances down at the man below her. (In truth, they are on the same level, height-wise. She always considers him, however, to be below her. Age, height…And in bed.) She strokes his hair with her soft hand, watching his chest rise and fall as he sleeps.

Not that she would ever tell him, but she admits to herself that he is very cute when he sleeps.

[b]4:37 AM.[/b] She is in his kitchen now, staring at all the appliances. Things looked so much different last night.

Then again, she was not paying attention to the appliances in his kitchen last night.

She tightens his robe around her tiny waist. She’d picket up this rust-colored thing from the foot of the bed-it had been hung up with care, as if whomever had hung up the robe had done so with purpose…

…As if he’d hung it up especially for her.

[b]4:40 AM. She has finally located the coffee machiene, and it is whirring and whistiling as it prepares her morning brew. (The first of many, she reminds herself, feeling almost sorry for the stainless steel macheine.) It has taken her longer than normal to find the coffee maker-an entire three minutes, 4.25 percent of an hour.

She normally has the coffee-making process down to a science; he often teases her, saying that she was gifted with the ability to locate coffee…While everyone else was gifted with common sense and the ability to keep their mouths shut.

(After this, she would always pretend to pout. Until, of course, he offered to “demonstrate his ability” to keep his mouth shut, when he would proceed to shut up both his mouth and hers with a kiss.)

4:42 AM. Her coffee is done. She pours two mugs, then, in a fit of generosity, pours another. The first two are for her, of course, but she pours a third for him. She does this nearly every morning, but always finds the cup untouched at the end of the day.

Stubborn bastard. “I already have my drink of choice,” he tells her, “and I don’t plan on changing anytime soon.”

Still, though, she leaves the coffee for him. It’s become almost a good-luck charm for her-if she pours him a cup of coffee, she will se his house again that night to make sure he didn’t drink it.

Shaking off her insecurities like an invisible piece of dust, she takes the steaming cup and exists the kitchen. She sees the sun just beginning to rise and cast its beams through the window. She enters her favorite room in his house-the parlor-and walks over to the large bay window. For a minute, she simply stares, watching everything come to life below her.

4:46 AM. She hears footsteps behind her, and knows he is approaching. Still, she does nothing, even as his arms encircle her waist. He takes her coffee from her, and receives a whimper, a threatening, overprotective growl, like another bear for her youngest cub.

Soon, however, she is silent again, and he wraps his hands in hers. She pushes her back against his chest and relaxes, feeling the warmth of bare chest at sunrise.

They stand there, -chest to back, hands entwined, facing the sunrise- for a long moment, not saying anything.

And yet, saying everything that needs to be said.

Although neither one of them will admit it, this is their favorite time of day. Here, it is quiet. No demands, no responsibilities, no lives hanging like the gossamer strands of a spider’s web. Here, they are not “him” and “her,” “he” and “she,” “his” and “hers.” Here, at this window, during the sunrise, they are one. Not the separate pieces of a puzzle,

5:02 AM. He opens his mouth to say something, but she shakes her head against his chest. “Shh,” she whispers, squeezing his hand. They are here, together. This is enough for the two of them. Words would be too much-the harsh sounds would break their peaceful stillness.

5:14 AM. Their peaceful moment is broken by a gust of wind on the wind chimes. Still, this quiet noise is enough to break their moment. She turns away from him, her mind filling for the first time with all the things she had to do. Her eyes widen in slight panic as she realizes all she must do, all she needs to do.

She teases him constantly about it, but his seemingly psychic abilities are never more needed than in that moment. He takes her and spins her towards him, gently but forcefully, so that her head is up against his chest. He holds her like that, in a tight, protective embrace, much like a big brother holds a little sister, as if shielding her from the harsh realities of the real world.

She lets him hold her like that for a moment longer than normal. She needs this.

He needs this.

They both need this.

5:27 AM.The ride to the office is silent, but it is a strained silence, not a comfortable one. Both of them are going over what they need to do today, what needs to be done.

The calm from the window still hangs between them, thin as a silk sheet from the bed.

5:28 AM. He drops her off at the front entrance and leaves to park the car. She enters alone, wondering what the new day will bring.

She listens for the noise of her shoes against the tile. It’s a noise she has grown accustomed to, just as she has grown used to walking into this building alone.

Sometimes she is afraid he does not want to be associated with her, as if he is ashamed of her.

5:29 AM. She has grown used to people stepping out of the way for her, of moving on with her life and not looking back, on burning all the bridges she’s left behind.

5:30 AM. She enters her office, turning on the lights and hanging up her jacket. She sits down, waiting for the day to begin.

She can’t remember anything from the window. The stillness, the long-sought peace, is gone. It always is, after all.

And maybe that’s the one thing she just can’t get used to.

---