she trembled beneath the blankets, rousing me out of my pseudosleep and into bemused concern. perhaps her mind was lost, circling in some otherwhere, searching for signs more familiar than those it repeatedly stumbled across; perhaps she was not lost at all, but rather precisely placed: settled into a terrifyingly comforting scenario that was her unconscious ideal.
with what i knew of her, the latter was certainly more likely to be true... but then, what ideal would force this suffering upon her? for this sort of thing took place not only in the dark and dreary night -- which would have been an acceptable enough setting, had it been the only one -- but in the high days of summer, with sunlight streaming through the windows and flowers blooming to perfume the air and warmth falling on the faces and arms and outstretched hands of all who reached to touch it...
she would always close the curtains before going to sleep: sometimes at noon, sometimes a bit later. what kind of intrinsic ideal could force her away from the sunlight, away from a joy in life that should be as inherent as this vitriolic epitome of peace?
i rose and drew the curtains, allowed the soft afternoon glimmers to reach in and caress the jelled muscles of her face; i sat by her side and, taking her hand, i waited.