I had felt her head lift from my shoulder, and after a pause, to which thinking back on it later I could assign no length, her lips had rested on my forehead for a moment. Then she had unclothed my body’s warmer side of hers, let the sheet fall in her place, slipped my restraining murmur. All that some time before I woke. I woke, not hearing the expected kettle settled on the stove downstairs, the bright twinned cries of saucers on the tray, cups and teaspoons on the saucers. The morning was summer, yet it was not quite usual that her gown still hung with mine behind the door. I would have called had not the silence closed itself against my call. Naked too, I stood at the stair-head; all the doors of the upper rooms were open, all the upper rooms were empty. I stood on chill tiles in the hall below; all the doors were open, rooms empty. The front door open, the garden empty. A loose horse-step.
What do You think about Tales And Imaginings (2012)?
