The Lover sleeps. She watches him in the warm pink alpenglow of the rock salt lamps and candles. She can't sleep in the dark, so he lets her have all the little lights throughout the night, has adjusted to it. He is gentle even in his sleep. His life is complicated these days.
He is stressed. Work is insane, his Broken Princess is not doing so well. He calls her friends, confused. He emplores, with his brevity of words. He strokes hair and says he will stay while she gets help. He doesn't know what to do. His work is mental and he spent a few days afraid of what he would come home to. She shakes in shame when she thinks of the stress she is causing. He deserves better than the Broken Princess in her web of insomnia, intoxicating classical and pink light.
She watches his body rise and fall and feels emphaticlly protective. Jealous a little even, of how peaceful he seems.
Vivaldi plays in the background and she paces the floorboards, looking at the paintings on the wall, taking dangerous little holidays into the headspace in which each was made. Some in euphoria, some in a dark room that has been locked up. The stars are still out but she hears the birds start to sing.
She hears a little sneeze. She should return to The Lover. He is stirring, stretching, in the tangled white sheets.
