A Plume of Love
The room was dark and silent, and he got up slowly after having woken up almost jumping. It was the middle of the night, and he felt tired. Perhaps he had had bad dreams, or maybe he heard a noise he couldn’t remember now. Either way, he was tired and awake, and the room was darker and more silent than any other night.
He had had a difficult week, which could explain the bad dreams, if these were in fact the reason of his being awake. He got up slowly, trying to not make too much noise to not wake her up. He walked towards the bedroom door, and with the light from the outside he was able to see the painting. There they were, two birds with beautiful colors immortalized falling in love, or so he thought.
He turned back to the bed and was able to see her better, having his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room. He saw her brown and golden curls, or better yet, brown and golden waves decorating the pillow. Her eyes were closed, but he closed his and could see the warm green of her eyes. He looked at the painting again, and understood the birds’ love, because he was seeing his.
He looked at her again, and saw her white hands resting where he wished he could be forever, and as she moved slightly, the sheets moved as well and he saw her perfect drawn figure calling him. He looked back to her face, and her peacefulness reminded him that things would be okay.
He turned back to the painting, and the bright colors made more sense now, the world made more sense now. The birds were in love, and so was he, and the room was dark and silent, but that was okay because she was there. He smiled to the birds, and went back to bed.