Day three:

Lazy.

He was too tired to get up…even to open his eyes.

Eight-thirty- and he's still there, spreading himself along the covers.

The airconditioner was turned off, and it was simply irresistible to lay back and feel the cool breeze as it enters his window. The sun was pale… weather's fine.

He was having a dream.

A good dream… he was dreaming of her.

She was beside him, the same weather as this, and it was Sunday.

No work.

He was the first one to wake up… and he was waiting for her eyes to open.

Got out of the bed- got some sketchbook and "charcoal pencil".

She opened her eyes- he wasn't with her. She felt the cool air around her- sent some shivers on her skin. She looked around and saw him- on his Jacobean table- busy.

"I'm sorry…I should have gone home…didn't know you have to do some work…"

She said this as she approaches him.

He looked up at her and gave her a lazy grin.

"I really don't mind having you here…" His eyes were on hers.

She was wearing a silk nightgown with her blonde hair filling her shoulders and back. The light gives a dramatic effect on her golden-brown eyes and skin.

"I… really don't mind- at all," he said as he studies her 'perfect image'.

She felt her cheeks-warmed by his meaningful eyes and words.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

He didn't answer. She went closer to see.

He was drawing an image of her … asleep. He was very good. The picture was done in an impressionist's eye. She held her breath…

She was standing in front for him… too close for the sunlight to pass through. He once again looked at her. Fiery

The sketchbook was on the floor. She was sitting on his lap. Both of them… were on each other's eyes…nothing else.

He touched her shoulders… down to her arms, as the piece of clothing fell away. He was studying her skin. He wanted to know how it burns in the sun, and shiver when in cold. He wanted to know… how it tasted… and how it felt under his crude and skillful hands.

He was painting a picture of her, using his hands as brush and eyes as the ink. She was his portrait and his canvas. Everything seemed insignificant.

He hair spilled across his shoulders as she receives this gift that he was offering her…the passion that he was capable of giving her.

Her eyes were closed and she was humming- a song.

If stars belong to constellations

I would be there in the skies

Within your eyes the universe

Will be with mine- in time

I shall wait for those constellations

To come and set me free…

He woke up and realized that everything was a dream. He smelled the sheets…

It smells good.