Gavin had been asleep, exhausted from the previous night’s work that carried well into the predawn hours. “What time is it?” he mumbled, unwilling to open his eyelids. Since Amy had moved in with him two years ago, he never knew what time it was upon waking. Unlike him, Amy was a very light sleeper and would not allow any light in their southeastern-exposed bedroom. Not only did that mean blinds closed and clocks without lighted dials, but a humidifier with no water in the tank. Used only for the drone of its motor to drown out outside noise, it was on all night, every night. Gavin, on the other hand, was a man of momentum, as Amy would say. Once awake he wanted to stay awake; once asleep, he wanted to stay asleep. He depended on the morning’s light and sounds to stir him. These natural acquaintances, along with reading in his bed at night after she was asleep, were now just a memory and sources of hard-fought arguments lost long ago.
