His eyes blink open in the dim light of morning. The bed's curtains are drawn, but tiny, weak sunbeams creep through, warming him and the woman whose legs are tangled in his. Her warm breaths puff gently into his ear even as her cold nose presses softly into his neck. He exhales audibly, and she stirs, a soft groan stealing away from parted lips.
Her eyes open too, then, half-lidded in the darkness. She is so beautiful, both aesthetically and because even drowsily, cleverness flashes across her face. He cannot help but compare her to her sister, just as he knows she still compares him to his best friend. Sybil was an angel. He loved her, once, and he still does now. But the pain has dulled. Every night he dreams of her, and every morning he wakes up to her sister. In his dreams, Sybil smiles prettily and talks of nothings, a ghost, but in his waking moments Mary is there, prettier and brilliant and so, so alive.
Irreverently, he ruminates on how he fell for Sybil, and she for him. He adored her—her cheekiness and independence and strength. She loved him too, after a time, loved that he stood up for his rights and for freedom and his support of her. In reflection, they loved each other's traits and ideals. Oh, their love held them together and they would have lasted until forever and a day, their vibrant passions intermingling into eternity—but could that really be true love? In their own way, it was. But Sybil was gone now, and her sister did not so much as take her place as overwhelm his entire being, starbursts echoing into the deepest recesses of his mind.
Mary set him aflame—they were a pair, an incandescent team—together, their ambitions would never fail to be accomplished. The world was made better when they worked as one, in a never-ending togetherness that could withstand the ages. Her soul sang harmonies with his. They clashed, of course, on politics and on land and even on their own children—but the sparks that burned between them simply grew brighter. Nothing could tear them apart. And he feels, he admits in astonishment, forever mated to her.
So when her eyes blink again, and she turns over to curl her fingers in his hair with a quiet "darling…", he smiles and pulls her closer. Life deceives all, and ends far too soon, so even though he cannot quite find the words he whispers into the morning light, "Being here, with you—makes it better."