The autumnal sun threw out golden fingers clinging to the last of the day.  Its breath puffing the sheer curtains with sallow light.  Those gold fingers slid down the wall, across the bed, to finally cling to the  window sill.  Her breath was slow and even.  Her heart beat regular. It was always like this - no matter the circumstance.  Behind her she could hear his snore.  Post-cotial  stupor always eluded her. 

 

She could hear  the emptiness in the house.  The silence balled up in each room.  Fiercely pulsing, it hung plump and sullen from the ceilings like the day's sickly sun.  Love, she thought, is a choice.  Often like a bite of a persimmon picked too soon - bitter and astringent on the untutored tongue.  She knew the taste well.  He had always loved her.  Always would.  Always forgave her transgressions, her lapses, her tantrums.  Always, she mused, is just another cage.

 

Now the sun is a squashed persimmon spread thinly over the horizon.  Soon, he would reach for her again.  She could feign sleep again.  Later she'd creep from their bed.  Supper.  Perhaps they'd go out.  Or not.  Even in the clamorous press of masticating strangers, she was cocooned in solitude.  He thrived in company.  In her crueler moments she denied him this joy.  In her less cruel moments, she smiled.

 

Stirring, his hand touched her hip.  Warm, broad, and firm on her cool skin.  Did she want to sleep?  His fingers tightened, carefully tilting her closer.  With a sigh, she turned to him.  Loneliness has the luxury of choosing its own companions.