Writing

Writing: morning light

She was awake. The sun was peeping through the curtains and she rolled over and let the tiny rays dance upon her bare skin. All was quiet except for the small sound of a bird from a tree outside.

He had left this morning before sunrise, stealing away thinking she hadn’t noticed. It was always the way, he didn’t know she was a light sleeper. But then he didn’t know her, not really. Not like he thought he did anyway. She liked it that way, she couldn’t understand why people made such a song and dance about being an open book. What was the fun in that? Real people were boring. Your true self was boring. Once the fun of youth disappeared you were a middle aged person set in your likes and dislikes, your routines and little ways. No, it was much better to keep that to yourself, she thought.

She rolled over in bed finding the cold part of the pillow. Thirty was so different to twenty, she saw the fine lines appearing now. She saw the young women and how they behaved and it felt silly. Yet at the time it had felt so sophisticated.

She wasn’t old, not yet, but she was different. But then you were never the same person from year to year. Day to day at times. Situations, experiences changed your outlook and behaviours constantly.

So, no, he didn’t really know her and that was exactly how she liked it.