RITUALS

Mornings are his time; he's up early way too early. I don't feel him leave the warm cocoon of our bed, more detect an absence when I linger in that time between consciousness and being fully awake. I must admit to monopolising that feeling of space, stretching our to accommodate the middle of the bed until he returns, his morning run complete. He smells of sweat and coffee. He pulls back the curtains and laughs when I groan and shield my eyes from the light. His soft kiss on my forehead peeking from the duvet is enough to make me expose my face, like a strange breed of turtle, for the deep kiss, which I know he will give me before he goes for a shower.

I hear him in the shower, humming above the sound of the water. He never sings, I'm sure that if he did it would be a rich deep tone. I, on the other hand, cannot resist belting out Diana Ross songs until ordered not to because the neighbours have called Animal Protection because they think a cat is being strangled. Some people have no taste.

I don't join him in the shower. This is his time; to invade it would ruin the day. He has his rituals and I observe them, glad to be allowed the privilege of being in his presence.

I take a voyeuristic pleasure in watching him dress. To see him step into shorts and pants, to pull on his undershirt over well-defined muscles, God I wish I had his toned physique. It's like some kind of strip show only in reverse. I'm sure he knows that I'm watching his every move, but he gives no indication, totally focussed on the job in hand. If it were the other way around, I'd be putting on a full show!

The spell breaks when he crosses to the bed, kisses me and announces, "Breakfast in 10." I know that our time together is coming to an end, that I will have to wait until tonight until I can have full access to my love.

During the day, looks will be furtively exchanged; the only contact will be the occasional brushing of arms in the elevator or the famous Gibbs hand slap.

God. How I long for nighttime to come.