1.22

[I think now that you read this blog, can it possibly be as honest as it once was? I would rather say things face-on than backchannel sideways slip-wise.]

Montseratt flipped his legs over the edge of the bed and thrust the heavy duvet from him. The morning sun cut like a knife through the tall window looking out. The beam fell clean across her face, but still she did not wake up. He didn't turn to look at her, though. He had seen her the night before (not with his eyes, mind you, but nonetheless) and there wasn't much mystery to a wife of six years, anyway. He sat for a long minute, staring out across his neighbor's field running down to the great lake below. He could see, far away, a long bank of clouds, and their shadow skimming along the water to crash like some ephemeral breaker upon the shore. He could almost hear the hurrying wind, if he strained, carrying the cloud along on its back. It was the same view as the day before, the same view he had seen for an age, now, and there was no mystery in it, really. Just a picture book with a new page for each day, each page a minute modification of the day before. His toes grew cold on the tile, and still he looked. He wasn't sure what he was searching for, exactly, but he didn't find it before she stirred. He heard a sharp intake build into a yawn and felt the bed shake as she levered up behind him. Then, a stillness. A small moment as he waited for her to speak, to say good morning, to ask what he was up to. She didn't, though. She just reached up and put a soft, reassuring hand on the back of his neck. A smile pulled the corners of his mouth up quietly. It was six years, today, wasn't it? Montseratt liked his life.
"Good morning," he said, and meant it.