I was drowsy from our lovemaking. All I wanted was to make a pot of coffee and take it upstairs to our bedroom and make love to her all morning, but I had to go to work or had an appointment or some other trivial thing cruelly stole me away.
The sun lazily filtered through the kitchen window as I took our cups and saucers from the cupboard and gently placed them on the countertop. When the percolating began, I turned around and walked on a strip of sunlight cast across the kitchen floor, leading me down the hall, and back upstairs to the bedroom.
I stopped in the doorway to gaze at her sitting bare-legged at the vanity mirror. The morning sun and the smell of brewing coffee joined me, and the three of us silently watched her brush her thick, brown hair. It fell just over her shoulders, and crackled like faraway lightning with each languid pull of the brush.
This serene symphony completely stilled me, as though I were sitting inside a beautiful church, worshiping the moment, suspended in time.
The clock on the wall ticked its staccato song. I glanced over at it. The little hand was a shade past the six, the big hand where eighteen would be. “She’s a lovely sight, isn’t she?” 6:18 asked.
I looked back over at her, knowing the serene symphony would soon be over.
“The sun was right—this is worth getting up for,” said 6:18.
I nodded again.
She pulled the brush through her hair one last time. 6:18 had only a few seconds left before it closed like a hymnal. It said, “I’ll miss her,” and then 6:18 was gone.
She set down the brush. Smiling, she asked why I had been nodding.
“6:18 will miss you,” I said.
She looked at me like a lovely puzzle, and just before I went downstairs to get our coffee, sunlight flooded the bedroom. When I turned to face the window, I swear it was stained glass.