I can't count the number of times I've come into the parlor of a morning to see you asleep in your armchair, resplendent in dressing gown and rumpled suit. One arm is thrown back behind your head, hand curled near your parted lips. Your collar is blown back and forth by your breath. The iridescent sheen of hair on your temple is highlighted by the sun coming in at the window. You are never more like a child than when you sleep, all long limbs and quiet breath. Your mouth is turned up at the corners. Why are you smiling?