Honeymoon

     He slept.

    Which apparently meant he snored.

    She didn't mind, not really, not when she was so awake and interested in the sounds and ticks, the smells of the night. Shadows opened her imagination to another world, the one just past, or the one to come. She wasn't sure and thought it didn't matter because she could enter at any time, stay as long as she wanted.

    Time didn't exist in her imagination and, for her, the future, her future, their future was a waft of tea and flowers. Not roses. Too fancy and obvious. Something less showy with more tang than sweet, but an invitation, a beckoning.

    The thrum of his sudden breath--some might call it a snort--threw open a window that she might slide through. The choices were many. She could take them all simultaneously--yes, you can do that--no questions asked, no permission needed now.

    Take every path, all the doors open, windows too, and the explosion could bear her up in a crescendo of light. Not really an explosion, more an implosion, an orchestra of sounds, with only an occasional snort from the snorer.

    She was fully awake now, smiling. Should she poke him, tell him to roll over, so she could sleep?

    No--no! It was too entertaining--his breathing poetry--and she would learn to sleep through it.

    Or not...

    Well, it was only one night.

    The first night.

    Oh.