[There goes the sheet. The rest of the bed clothes trail anxiously after it, skewing at wild angles across away from her across the mattress. For a split second (or two or five, really, as confusion flexes broadly across her face and some mental mechanism begins to fire and spin between the ears), she makes no effort to similarly distance herself from the stranger who's stumbled out of the other side of the bed. She just stares back at him. And then past him, eyeline flicking rapidly to the door beyond his shoulder and the pale blue wallpaper with its bunches of delicate pink flowers, and the dressing table, and the drawn curtains, and—
Her own hands. The wedding band. The prodigious assortment of ruffles across the neck of her sleepwear. The room. The unfamiliar bed. The room.
It's a too rapid assessment. Then she too is moving, throwing back what's left of the covers to extract herself from the bed.]
This is a dream.
[Not an answer. Probably not the last time he'll have to deal with that.]
no subject
Her own hands. The wedding band. The prodigious assortment of ruffles across the neck of her sleepwear. The room. The unfamiliar bed. The room.
It's a too rapid assessment. Then she too is moving, throwing back what's left of the covers to extract herself from the bed.]
This is a dream.
[Not an answer. Probably not the last time he'll have to deal with that.]