Every winter’s morn, the sunlight would kiss me awake, daring to trespass via my sheer curtains. This morning, however, I awoke to my wife’s kisses – tracing my ear, along my jawline, to my neck. It was she who chose the curtains, and now I began to wonder if she’d conspired with the sun to deny my morning sleep. I eased under her lippy spell, my heartbeat rising to meet her intrusion. I moaned and opened my eyes … too late remembering she’d died the spring before.
I shouldn’t still be able to see the moonlight through dirt, should I?