Everything was set. The new day could begin.
She had opened the shutters, lit the wood oven and put water to boil on the stove. Everyone of her moves was precise and weirdly graceful. A well prepared ballet she had practiced and perfected along the months.
She knew how to set the ideal dawn for him. And he was about to make his entrance. Every step he took in his room spoke to her. In a few moments, he would join her. The sky was clear and she knew he would be in a rather good mood.
She felt happy.
Her hands ran on the table facing the wide window, sorting the papers he had left scattered around the night before. Setting the pile where it belonged, she ligned up his pens and pencils, fetched his cup of coffee, and left it on the rough wooden surface.
With precise timing, she went to the corner of the room, and sat in the arm chair. The door opened, just as she was lifting her bare feet on the ottoman.
She was right, he was in a good mood. Most mornings, he didn’t bother aknowledging her presence so directly.
He sat, stared out the window, and she wondered where his mind would wander today. In a happy place, perhaps, but she’d only find out late in the evening. He reached for the cup of coffee, and she watched as his curled lips tested how hot the beverage was.
When he smiled, her heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t a moody man, but happiness sure wasn’t his forté. His gift, and his burden. He liked to say that fatality was a better well than joy, when it came to inspiration. When he dared to speak, that is.
He chose his pen carefully, and setting a pile of blank sheets before him, he glanced her way. As she was used to, she turned her eyes to the window, eluding his stare. She could feel his eyes on her. Scrutinizing her every curve, his look like a long caress she always longed for. She could almost hear the ideas bouncing in his mind, running on her shoulders, on her arms, on her thighs…
Each morning, he discovered her again. Taking his time, he studied how the light embraced her in the sunrise. Each day, he prepared carefully to set her in a new story. And when he felt he had captured her daily special essence, he looked down on the paper, and started writing.
She loved the sound of the pen scratching on the sheets. Depending on the days, it was slow and tender, or excited and nervous. His hand danced relentlessly. She knew, at this point, she could stand up and walk away. But she sat still, listening to the tale unfolding, watching the subtle twitches on his face.
Around noon, his hand would significantly slow down its race, and she knew it meant he was getting hungry.
She got up, and walked to the stove, to warm some stew.