She's never been so happy. She never dreamed it could even happen to her. The hand life dealt her was fine, just so. But this, no this she never expected.
Her parents found her a good match. Nice. Solid. Money. Fine.
If she hears the word fine one more time she might just explode.
Thank the heavens his business takes him away to the fairs and allows her these moments of pure joy.
She never thought someone would put her needs first. All her life, she has worried about others. Younger siblings, parents, everyone else came first. And then a husband to whom she must give what he needs.
There was never any joy in it. Her mother had told her that there wouldn't be. Just lie back and think of France. And that's what she does. Every time, which is now more or less once a month, thank the heavens for that too.
How can anything be so wonderful, she asks herself, how can any one person be so perfect, fit so perfectly with (and in) another? He's so considerate, so gentle, always taking care of her needs before his own. And he knows her body so well already. He reads the signs, pushes the buttons, to make sure that she gets what she deserves.
In the afterglow of making love (yes, making love, it is not just sex) her mind whirls, the adrenalin pumping through her body, she cannot sleep. He, on the other hand, is out for the count, sleeping like a baby (what does that mean anyway – in her limited experience babies don't sleep, they cry). She shifts and squirms, trying to find rest, but her mind won't stop working. And all the while his chest rises and falls evenly, and there is (she has to admit) occasionally even a little snore.
So she starts to move her fingers in the soft, sensitive spot under his arm. She traces light patters on his skin and as she does so he jumps ever so slightly and then settles down again, pulling her closer into him. She would love to settle down and sleep, but her mind won't let her. So she begins her tickling motion again, a little less gently this time, until the corners of his mouth turn up into a smile and a tiny laugh escapes his lips.
"Alright, alright, I'm awake, you can stop now." He tells her, squirming under her touch. He turns his head to look at her, gazing down with such love.
"D'Artagnan," she says as seriously as she can muster, "we have to talk."
His eyes turn serious, worried, concerned all at once. Oh, those puppy dog eyes of his.
She tries to keep a straight face, to reel him in just a bit more.
"You should know," she starts, stringing it out just a little bit longer, "has anyone ever told you that you snore?"