He's making roast chicken, the scent of it wafts through the stuffy house. This reminds me of long-buried dinner parties with our friends, where loud jazz music & too much Bianco Toscano reigned.

It's the first time he's cooked, first time he's eaten a proper meal since...

Then.

He's lounging outside now, bathing in the vivid hue of the sky & the unconcealed, unashaméd sunshine.

It is a glorious day, the sort of weather we used to go skinny dipping in. Just to be rebellious.

When did that stop? When did we stop tossing our heads back in  laughter at the unadulterated ecstasy of sharing the exhilaration of this life together?

I watch him and the clock circumspectively. He's been outdoors for a disproportionately lengthy amount of time. I suspect he's lassitudinous, I should just leave him be.

Yet I begin to detect the faintest suggestion of smoke in the air. The chicken has been in the oven for too long now. I try to wake him but he doesn't acknowledge me. It's okay, he's always been a heavy sleeper. I'll try again soon, he should awaken shortly anyway as the heat of the sun is becoming uncomfortable.

I continue to nudge his formerly muscular shoulders, I tickle his freckled nose, I tell him - loudly enough - to wake up. I bring my lips to his in a gentle union that I repeat each morning and each night. Still, he does not wake.

Panic. I panic. Perhaps something is wrong with him. My crooked fingers feel urgently for a pulse and delight at the sensation of his steady, rhythmic heartbeat.

He remains asleep.

Oh, what am I to do? His lunch will be tarnished, he will have to discard the chicken and start afresh. This pains me more than I care to admit as this is the first time he will have done something productive since... Then.

I begin to scream at him, bellowing harassed obscenities, earnest implorations.

His sleep continues in tranquility through my malaise.

Why? Why doesn't he listen to me anymore?