half-dark.

it was half-dark when i woke, and as i swam up out of sleep, i couldn't quite tell from where, exactly, the light was coming. i had been there less than 24 hours - the house was still largely a stranger to me.

i lay still, and through one slightly open eye i took stock. the bathroom? no. the hallway around the corner? no. i swiveled my heavy head, hair twisted in the remnant's of the previous day's ponytail, to my right, towards the windows. there. that was it.

it was the sun.

the clock on the nightstand read 5:14 am. i swung my feet out from under the blanket, slid off the edge of the mattress as quietly as i could. i watched the gauzy green curtains billow lightly towards me, propelled by a breeze through the screen. how long had it been since i'd slept in a room with open windows? i did not know. the city, though melodious in its own way, is usually not conducive to such things.

here, now, there was quiet. a bird somewhere chirped rhythmically, but other than that, nothing moved, nothing sounded out. i spread the curtains with my hands.

over the bay's inlet, behind a grove of trees, the sun was rising. itself a dark, burnt orange, its light was red, diffuse and spreading, over the water and across the lawn. though it had not graduated to brightness, i still squinted in the face of it - i saw the latent heat in its density, in its reach. but still, nothing moved.

i crawled back into bed, trying not to disturb him. the back of his legs, the small tower of his shoulders were warm, and i moved towards them to counter the cool remnants of night air. then i slept - soundly, effortlessly.