At Dawn

Collins knows that what he has with Angel is much more than he deserves, and it's far better than anything he'd envisioned for himself. Still, that doesn't stop him from occasionally wishing that things could be different. Oh, nothing big–they're only small, selfish thoughts. He sometimes wishes, for example, that Angel wouldn't leave the cabinet doors open after using them. He wishes that Angel would let him burn incense, although, to be fair, she is quite allergic to it. (She can't wear perfume, either, and it drives her crazy. He's secretly glad for it, because Angel's scent is so intricate as it is, a combination of plastic and cosmetics and laundry detergent and that sweet subdued air of 'boy'.) He also wishes, sometimes, that he could wake beside his lover more often.

He supposes it's a woman thing. She doesn't like to be seen before she's been through her daily toilette. This, in itself, doesn't particularly bother him. He's happy for Angel to look however she wants to look. But Collins knows that he's really much more of a morning person than she is, and so her ritual of rising each day with rosy-fingered dawn and locking herself in the bathroom before he can stir seems a little absurd and just a little sad. He often wishes she would relax more.

But this morning, he's caught her off guard. Outside, where the even rain falls, it's dark. The lamp beside the bed is still on, coloring the room with its sickly yellow glow; he must have fallen asleep reading again. He thinks that, whatever happens later, this will be a beautiful rainy day, because right now Angel is sleeping beside him, breathing against his shoulder. This is the first morning he's had the opportunity to simply watch her. It's true that her appearance is rather disarrayed, but he still feels the familiar leap in his pulse, accompanied by the sentimental thought that he's never seen anything so beautiful. Her hands are curled close to her face and her lips are parted, paler than usual and a bit chapped. Most of her makeup has been removed, though the last stubborn eyeliner is now smudged in grey semicircles under her lashes. Collins is tempted to wipe it away (but he doubts Angel would appreciate waking with his thumb in her eye).

The thing he notices last–the very most noticeable thing–is the faint black shadow covering her face. He remembers one day when she handed him her purse, asking him to fish for some money and pay for lunch. As he was doing so he found, in the small pocket where women would generally keep their menstrual products, a disposable razor and a few towelettes. Collins smiles. He has never mentioned this to Angel. He knows she would be embarrassed. (–ashamed? It hurts to imagine his dear lover being ashamed of herself.) She would be embarrassed now, too. It's too bad, because she's no less lovely than ever. Nothing that's a part of Angel, however strange or out of place, can upset Collins, and he adores every hair follicle on her body. (At this, he warns himself never to descend to composing poetry for her.) He carefully leans over and kisses her cheek, letting her face scratch his. Almost immediately, her eyes flutter open (she squints against the onslaught of pallid light), made twice their regular size by the makeup smeared around them. One hand flies to her cheek, effectively guarding it from any more unexpected attention.

"Sweetie?" she asks groggily. "What time is it?"

Collins settles his own head against the pillow again and drapes an arm across Angel's waist. "Shh," he whispers, "go back to sleep."