before he wakes, i sip tepid water in the morning drizzle of uncertain grey-- the anonymous weather that offers no hint of temperature or the colour of midday. i examine his eyelashes for a few moments and then focus on the sunday morning figures papering the streets in a cobblestone church town. i have never looked at the town from this side. aching hours of new light, another's breath softening the silence of a birdless winter morning.

quiescent, insomniatic. 'pretty girl' he mumbles sleepily. it's what my mother called me as a child, unbeknownst to him.