"Stellar" he mumbles, his lips in the hollow behind her ear. His chin is cupped in the ridge of her collarbone as he leans in further. She looks loose and warm in the late sunlight that frames them in the kitchen doorway. They are happy, inspecting the fresh new coat of eggshell that now graces their 'dining nook'.
That's what the realtor had called it.
These are the sorts of intermissions I have between my dreams. They are the tiniest glimpses into the lives of content, unassuming people. They are the dreams of my dreams. I have the slightest feeling that these are the ones that I won't get to, there are so many that come before them, and so many that follow.