Imperfection

It is three in the morning and she's sitting on a chair in a dark, cold room with her laptop on her knee. He's three feet away from her, tangled up in sheets, fast asleep. Occasionally, she hears him sighing restlessly, moving his limbs until he is comfortable again and with a final sigh, his dark outlines settle back into another dream. Maybe he is dreaming of her, causing another scene, falling down again or bickering with him over nothing. Or maybe he dreams of the things he so long for - home, familiar family members, Mama's home-cooked food. But he is here. And she smiles.

In a few minutes, she will crawl into the warm bed and snuggle up to him at which he will protest mildly - her arms are too cold. They will giggle slightly, but he hugs her anyway, and soon they will be sleeping soundly.

... he just woke up, saying, "What's going on babe?"

"Nothing, just surfing."

"What's going on with the typing? Come to bed, it's really late."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Come to bed, now!"

"Okay, two minutes."

"Why the hell are you typing?"

"Two minutes. Pfft."

And he is wide awake now, waiting for her to finish whatever it is she is doing.

She will have to continue this attempt at an ode to imperfect love some other time. Even though this is just a memory, she feels too annoyed to carry on now.