Tropical Storm

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THE ALARM BURRED softly, nudging the somnolent figure sprawled over the waterbed toward wakefulness. One long arm reached over and slapped the snooze bar, then moved back to its resting place, even though the pre-dawn gloom reflected off pale eyes that were already open, and gazing at the dull white of the ceiling.

Tiny clicks and hisses of the ice machine in the kitchen and the soft hum of the central air cycling were the only sounds that stirred the darkness, save for the soft breathing of the occupant of the bed. Finally, that breathing expanded into a sigh, and the waveless mattress rustled as the tall figure rolled up out of bed, and padded across polished teak wood floors into a pale salmon, marble-floored bathroom. The light flicked on, causing an audible groan, then the water ran in the marble sink, splashing loudly as it hit warm skin.

The reluctant riser finished wiping off the excess water with a soft towel, then faced its reflection. “Morning.” Pale blue eyes set in an angular, high-cheekboned face looked back, framed in dark, shoulder-length hair that just now was lying in disordered layers above a high, strong forehead. The voice was a warm contralto, slightly hoarse from sleep, and the lips that formed the word quirked into an ironic smile as they got no answer.

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