The sifted sunlight, liquid gold, found its way through her mascara-clumped eyelashes to wake her from her raspberry-syrup sleep.  Satine found herself in a most uncomfortable position; Christian's head on her curled-up knees and hers on his shoulder.  Gently she adjusted her sleeping gallant knight and stood, stretching to relieve the screaming pain of you-contorted-us-and-we're-paying-you-back joints. After glancing at Marilyn, who informed her that it was 10:00 in the a.m. and she'd slept only three hours, Satine stumbled to Christian's bathroom and washed her face.  Makeup ran in streaks down porcelain skin and on an impulse she used his toothbrush to brush her teeth.  Not like he'd mind.

Feeling somewhat refreshed, she stepped out of the Yankees jersey and into the hot droplets of shower water that pounded the smoke stench from her body.  It must have been the most appreciated shower in the history; Satine could literally feel each moment of the previous night slipping off her skin and down the drain.  Moments later she emerged completely relaxed---and dead tired. 

She didn't sleep, though.  Satine wandered the narrow halls of Christian's home, running her fingers across the navy blue walls of the kitchen and making a face at the dirty dishes in the sink and what she supposed were failed attempts at cookies dumped in his garbage.  She studied the pictures on his walls; there were his idols, James Dean, Clark Gable, Humphrey Bogart, Marlon Brando, Cary Grant.  Examining the records that were stacked on an evergreen-colored shelf, she found Nat King Cole, The Beatles, Etta James and Janis Joplin, loads of ballets and soundtracks, and the many volumes of tattered books that were likely his favorites.  The sofa, where he lay still sleeping soundly, was worn and a faded color that was probably once deep green, as were the rugs.  But his apartment wasn't ugly or shabby.  Only in need of a little cleaning.

Feeling like June Cleaver, she rummaged through closets until the holy grail of a broom was in her hands and Christian's wood floor was swept spotless.  Then Satine tackled the kitchen, loading the sink with apple-scented soap until those dishes were in perfect sparkling Mr. Clean-would-be-proud condition.  With Elton John serenading them softly from the record player, Satine faced her slumbering knight-errant and sang along with the flamboyant performer, the broom her partner in a madcap waltz. 

"My gift is my song and this one's for you." Gently she brushed a lock of hair from his face.  "You can tell everybody that this is your song.  It may be quite simple now that it's done.  I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind that I put down in words. . ."

He hung suspended in the magnetic area between sleep and real life.  One half of his mind drifted freely in dreamland, the other heard faint angelic singing that snapped him awake instantly.  Once bleary gray-green-blue eyes focused, the haze revealed Satine, still wearing that skimpy shirt, hair hanging wet down her back and a broom in her hands, slowly walking about his apartment and lying her hands on each little knickknack momentarily.

"Now you're in the world!" He finished, sleep crackling his voice in a sexy, Rudolph Valentino way. "What are you doing?"

Satine jumped, then thought quickly and answered, "Memorizing each bit of your room so that when I leave, I'll have it with me forever."
"Queen Christina.  You're a Garbo fan?"
"I've seen all her movies."
"Multiple times."

She made coffee and it burned bitterly down her throat while she sat at the table, nervously fiddling with the cracked blue mug, waiting for him to get out of the shower, bacon sizzling on the stove in a pool of grease.  "Oh, shit," she swore when it began to splatter over Christian's navy walls.  Racing towards the stove, Satine quickly remedied the situation and guarded that bacon as if it were her own child. 

She was so wrapped up in her Julia Child fantasy that she didn't hear him come up behind her.  Christian, a towel swathed about his slim hips, twined his long arms around her waist and whispered, "Boo!" into her ear.  Satine, startled, dropped the greasy spatula she'd been wielding and it clattered to the floor spattering its bacon-blood everywhere.  "Fuck."

Silence.

Christian filled that silence, whispering "Leave it" in such a hot, passion-filled tone that Satine's knees went weak and she surrendered to him.  He proceeded to carry her to his bed and make love to her with such fervor that both were numb with the intensity. 

Watching him dress, Satine studied every detail of Christian's absolute perfection.  The lock of hair falling into his eyes, the chameleon eyes now a deep blue-green, the lithe bohemian fingers, the sleepy, hazy, sexy smile.  She memorized the musky smell of the sheets and their skin, the pink polish chipping on her toenails, the tiny indentation between Christian's eyebrows that furrowed adorably when he was deep in concentration, her wet hair smelling of him, his wet hair smelling of her. 

"What are you looking at?" He asked, grinning boyishly. 

"You."
"Why?"
"Because you're beautiful." She curled into the warmth of the bedsheets giggling girlishly.  "I think you're totally hot."

A kiss.  "I love you."
"I know."
"Don't you love me?"
"Of course I do."

They kissed in a shadow.  They danced upon cerulean tufts of dreamworld sky.  Their whispered words travel through time to those who carry on their story.  They were in love.  Tears and kisses fall like rain, weaving inexplicably throughout many destinies.  Their death brings new life.  Their love will never die.