Fiction VII

She watches him, sipping his drink. The usual. The steel tumbler, the tshirt, the smile. Everything exactly the same as the day before. Except for the newly trimmed hair. She has this insane impulse to ruffle it again. But she knows she can’t. She drinks in the sight. And sighs.

“Sleep, little one..” he says. The voice calm. As soothing as a lullaby.  An insomniac otherwise, all she has to do to go to sleep when he’s watching over her is lay her head on the pillow. Her eyelids droop, and she asks through half-closed eyes  – “Watching?”

“Always” he replies “Always…”

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