She senses a shift in the light. It must be mid-morning, because the little yellow sun is marching across their bed like a terrorist. The light had been making shadow puppets against the inside her eyelids for the last twenty-minutes or so. When she opens them, she sees sunspots.
He’s still sleeping under the blanket; at least she thinks he is. He’s just a lump in the bed, a creature from a children’s story written in one of those big pop-up books with the thumb-thick black letters. She imagines that his nose is buried in a pillow, his mouth slack-jawed, lost in another one of his psychosexual dreams, like the one about her vagina really being the mouth of a red-velvet system of caverns leading to the crystal core of the planet. He said the secret to ending the war was hidden there, deep inside. The war didn’t make him any less of a pervert. Just a lazier one.