The moon appeared, a moody silvery face half masked by grey clouds, just above the trees. The young woman moved slowly through the quiet house: it was still early, perhaps before seven in the old clock time: she knew where to find her love, the writer, who must have been at work for a good two hours when she woke up.
There he was, one beloved hand resting still over the keyboard, the deep eyes reading; she did not want to disrupt his thoughts, soon enough the city sounds would bring him to the present (whenever that was, and hopefully close to her.)
He saw her reflection in the screen: “Good morning to my angel,” he said turning toward her, an unstoppable smile on his lips.
“I envy you so much,” she replied, kissing him with much tenderness, “you can so easily live in two worlds at a time…”