The room is dark, still. Window curtains cup the light so that it brims over onto the floor and creeps in so slowly that she feels the room itself wake up. And she wonders if it dreams, too. Does it dream of them? The alarm next to his side of the bed will go off very soon. He will rise and shower and leave and then she will be alone before their children wake up and their room wakes up and the whole building will tremble into the morning.
Until then, she watches him. And the room watches her like a creature with one eye open.
He is on his side, facing her. His head on the pillow, his chest bare. A few grey hairs there, more on his chin. His body is young though. Muscled. Male. A tattoo circles his upper arm. She used to run her finger along that tattoo. The slight difference in texture between scarred, inked skin and not used to fascinate her. Now, it is just one more thing about him that is different from her.
She studies his face. When was the last time she told him she loved him? It was most likely when she loved him. The room knows. She places her hand on the wall behind her. It is warm. Her thumb catches a ridge of wallpaper seam. Her forefinger, an edge. She turns and kneels then, pressing herself against the wall, knees sinking into the pillows, and listens. It is arterial, the sound. Rushing. Contained. She wanders the miniscule rise again with her finger. Stands and finds a tab and then she pulls. The paper comes away in a small curl that opens into a wave. Then she finds another and another, until her husband is lost beneath them. She walks over the cresting ruins to the windows. When she opens the curtains and turns around her husband is gone and the room fills over with light.