The Pillow

 Dépêche Mode was playing somewhere in the background. He had no idea where the music came from. Dawn had broken. Sunlight filtered through the curtains. He could never get used to air-conditioning. He always had the chills in the early morning hours. It was not sleep he was waking up from. He had fallen out of consciousness. He was in a strange place under strange circumstances but the lady who slept beside him was someone he longed to be with.

It was strange not feeling the effects of a hangover though he was unsure whether he was in an alternate reality. He stroked her hair and moved in close to smell her. Most of the senses are present in a dream but never the smell. There was the unmistakable odor of cigarette smoke and booze but the fragrance of shampoo never left her. Somehow, women smell sweeter in the morning regardless whether they took a shower or not. Despite the concrete proof, he was still incredulous.

He tried to recall the night before. There was a celebration of some sort. It remained unclear to him why at all they were together that morning but he did not complain. He was instead thankful for the rare opportunity to wake up next to someone he loved so dearly; the messed up hair, the look of tranquility, the confidence that morning will come showed in her partly open mouth.

Those lips—he could only wish his would meet hers!

Propped on one elbow, he stared at her beauty regretfully. He heard himself say: “If only you were mine…”  She stirred, as if in reply. She turned to face him; her lips almost touching his and he caught her breath which jarred him to consciousness; that it was in fact, for real!

He slid his free arm around her in a protective embrace. In the silence he was telling her; “I am here. Nothing and no one can ever hurt you while I’m around!”