Her bare back was beautiful. Dark hair crossed her forehead to her shoulders and down. Further even. She was asleep. He wanted a drink. If he made it without sound he’d be fine. If she woke, it would be too soon. He poured the whisky on top of the ice. Then he poured the sweet vermouth. He mixed the drink with his finger. It was eight am. The sun had been up and he’d hoped to been on a walk by now. She hadn’t yet woken and she breathed so quietly he wasn’t sure she was alive. The drink was smooth feeling going down his throat. He’d make egg sandwiches for both of them. He’d use the cast iron because it looked the best when in use. If he did it right he’d be able to display breakfast on the bed before her eyes opened. It’s possible he’d be on his second. He’d also make her one. Then they could both enjoy the morning when the morning was what it was suppose to be.
-M. Taggart
mtaggartwriter 
Sounder Chandleresque.
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