I have tied my hair in one long braid that rests on my right shoulder. It annoys me that some of the strands never quite fall in line, short curls framing my forehead, so I keep tugging at them. In my absent-mindedness, I only end up pulling out even more strands from the braid.
He is sleeping beside me with an air of abandon, his head weighing on my lap and his hand loosely holding my waist. I look down at his slightly parted lips resisting the urge to run my fingers from his eyebrows down his nose to his nascent beard and through his locks. It amuses me to imagine the contented groan and the half-smile he would probably throw at me before repositioning his head and tightening his grip on my waist.
As the story in my book and the texture of our love merge inside my head, the hours feel like a silk robe gently caressing my skin. Outside, the usual crying out over stalls and traffic remains precisely there, where it should be: outside.
