You wake up and the air is milky and bright. The room glows with a kind of effervescent contentment, despite the boxes and clothes and dishes. You think to yourself: this is the kind of morning you could get used to.
When you turn over, she is staring at you. The luminous innocence of the light curdles in your stomach. You don’t remember ever going from awake to afraid so quickly.
“You were moving all night,” she says. “Your arms and elbows touched me. You kept me awake.”
If you apologize profusely, go to this page.
If you tell her to wake you up next time your elbows touch her in your sleep, go to this page.
If you tell her to calm down, go to this page.