She likes to think of him in those early morning hours before the light chases the dull grey out of everything in the apartment. When she's up and dressed and ready to leave for work while he's still folded up in the sheets. Twisted like he's been fighting off something much more serious than morning--than the alarm clock ring. Before starting off for work, she always stands in the doorway of the bedroom and fights against the demon of reaction these moments cause. To wake him. To whisper. To leave without words. To undress and slip back under his warm breath and body. He always moves to her side. His hands reaching in the direction she was an hour or so before. Leaving stings the skin. Every time. More than I ever wanted her to believe. This morning, she places her head into the back of his neck. Sucking in the smells of his skin and hair. Like a just unwrapped bar of soap. And lavender. Kissing a fine line of the story about the way in which she loves him across his neck. His face and eyes. He's clutching her arm. Inaudible noises through the cover of sleep and pillows. And she wonders if he misses her. The way the sheets never forget the smell of him when he's gone.