She rolled over slowly so not to wake him and put her hand on his chest and felt the rhythm of his heartbeat with her fingertips, his breaths in the palm of her hand. She lost count of the minutes and then slowly slipped away and out of their bed. The hot washcloth soothed and refreshed her as she slipped on her heavy robe. She stood by him for a second and put her pillow under his arm and quietly shut the bedroom door behind her. She could hear the surf below and the wind gusts that was driving it. She thought . . . took a deep breath and went on her way to her studio . . . she could do this . . .
He pulled her pillow closer to him, felt the empty space and woke up. His arm moved out a little further reaching for her and it took a minute for him to get up. He expected the bath to be warm from the shower, but it was cool and empty as he turned the shower on and looked again around their bedroom. He found his robe and walked out towards the kitchen, the coffee pot was cold, lights off. He stood for a second and looked into the living room to see if she was sitting wrapped up on the sofa. The fireplace was cold and she wasn't there.
He gave her time for privacy and her thoughts and she would sit and sketch for hours, sipping tea he brought her, or sitting silently with an art book, her eyes closed or distant in thought . . . after a time, she would come back to him and curl up on his lap, or tease him to feed her . . . wanting attention. He walked back into the bath and started to step into the shower and thought again. He went to their bed and found her collar next to her pillow and thought again to himself . . .
He walked back to the kitchen and found her slippers and heavy robe, thought again, and reached immediately for the door and walked quickly down towards her studio . . .
