C’s balance was off.  It was the one thing she kept forgetting, getting out of bed in the morning, anticipating that graceful slide into a new day.  A stumble, a lurch, sometimes a quick sit down on the floor or back on the bed, and she was ready to waddle forth and claim belly pats from strangers.  On mornings when it seemed too much to be born, she would grit her teeth, elongate her neck, and scold herself about how fortunate she was to be so limber in times like these.  

D came to recognize that particular angle of her head and all it entailed.  From it, he learned to have kettle ready to whistle by the time she was finished with the stubbornly maintained morning regimen.  He could even understand, sometimes, why she insisted on managing lotion and hose herself.  Damn fool woman.  He was careful not to smile too much about it on long-necked mornings.

This morning her tea was already steeping and still no C.  Sneaking a peak to double check his solitude, D boogied around the kitchen, thinking of his warm ripe queen, all the happier with the knowledge of how cranky she would be at his unbridled joy as she navigated a squashed bladder and the swelling of her delicate ankles.

A thump in the bedroom—formerly background noise: a stubbed toe, a dropped phonebook—brought him on the run.  He nearly made thumps of his own skidding to a stop in socks on hardwood floors, flabbergasted at the naked dervish before him.

It occurred to him he should stop her.  The doctor had warned against sudden movements, and her pirouetting certainly wasn’t slow.  A small hop, a final turn, and she settled back onto her feet, arms out to accept the voluminous cloak of morning sunlight.  She was completely absorbed in her own experience, the gentle final stretches, the deep meditative breathing.  This moment was a treasure he would carry with him into eternity.

Fearing to disrupt yet needing to be a part, he breached her sanctuary.  Moving as carefully as a porcelain doll, he sank into her space, carefully touching her hands, stepping close behind, wrapping himself around her like the sun.  He breathed her nape, her ear, smiling at the tiny shiver, pressing his cheek to her temple, admiring the hilly scenery from his eyes to the floor.  With the happiness that comes from knowing exactly which button to push, with his mouth right at her ear, he murmured a mere “toast and tea” and a hum of appreciation, and held her still against the ticklish reaction, and unpinned her hair, and devoted himself to her until stone cold tea and soggy toast crumbs were all that remained of that idyll of morning.