Chamomile

It wasn't quiet.  Not really.  In the background, the radio was playing softly.  Mellow songs, soothing songs, voices crooning like silk and velvet, caressing his ears with whispers of sweet love, sweet words, sweet nothings.  Words too soft to be understood.  Above him hung three paper mache lamps, hung at different lengths, colored alternately in teal, orange, and blue.  They swayed, gently in the breeze produced by an electric ceiling fan in the center of the room.  That too had a noise, but he couldn't quite make it out over the gentle hum of the radio.

Slowly, languidly, he stretched, arms going up over his head, fingers reaching, curling, to tap against the headboard.  His hands dropped, crossing beneath his head and the pillow it rested on crushing the downy softness tight against his head.  His feet too extended, dragging with them the sheets tangled in his toes, pulling the thin linen off his chest.  A yawn cracked his mouth open, showing teeth and he moved to cover it with his hand.  As he withdrew his left hand, a glint of light gave him pause.  Holding his hand up, he absently thumbed the golden band wrapped around his ring finger as if unsure if it truly belonged there.

Rolling onto his side, he dropped his left hand on the empty space beside him.  Running his hand across the still warm sheets, he half buried his head in the soft down pillows, enjoying their fresh laundered smell.  From an open window somewhere, the tinkle of wind chimes could be heard, the breeze itself infused with the scent of chamomile.  Slowly, he closed his eyes.  In the background the radio continued to coo, sweet nothings, sweet words, sweet love, too soft to be understood.

The End

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