Sleep-Soft

He loved her best – or the closest approximation he could manage – in the mornings when she stumbled, bleary eyed and sleep creased, from their bed. Still half asleep – never a morning person, ever – she would stumble across their suite into the water closet, where she would stay for the longest time imaginable and emerge clean and sleek and transformed.

It was the sleekness that had first attracted him – along with her pedigree and her wit – but now that he had had that sleekness for so many years, it was the moments of imperfection that he enjoyed now. Perhaps he enjoyed her moments of imperfection because he, and only he, ever saw them. They made her his, more than any vows or family alliances. The moments when, just before rising from between their silk sheets, carefully chosen to match exactly the colour of her hair, she would rub at her eyes and yawn. There was little tenderness between them now, less than there had been, and there had never been much. Some people were capable of great tenderness. They were not.

But if, by chance, he happened to brush against her before she got out of bed, her skin would be warm and sleep-soft, and he would look at her perfect face, marred by a crease from the pillowcase. Rarely she would smile at him, a small, almost embarrassed smile.

"Good morning, Lucius."