This story is fictional, as are all characters and incidences in it.
Although this is original work, I make no copyright claims to it. You should feel free to reproduce it as you wish, although appropriate credit where due would be greatly appreciated.
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When she heard him move, she paused in her rising.
The morning laid low over their home as she sat up in her bed, partly arisen from her slumber, and yet in some part, laying in the embrace of a tender, warm drowsiness. Her eyes ran over his frame, sharply defined and chiseled even through the covers and sheets. She watched, as the first rays of sunlight caressed his face, making their way through space and time to lay their gentle warmth on her beloved. She stroked his face, silent and adoring, even as his eyelids fluttered, his stubble crackling inaudibly through slender fingers, and long, painted nails.
6:00, proclaimed the clock on her bedside, as it did every morning when she looked at it. She should begin.
A last bit of his essence lingering upon her nostrils, she wore her slippers, adjusted her gown, and tip-toed her way towards the bathroom. It was early yet. A few solitary birds chirped bravely, even as the city enjoyed its slumber. Soon, there would be hustle and bustle. There would be the daily grind. There would be the noise and sights and smells and sounds of a grimy city, once again beginning its daily dance of sin and folly, its very fabric pulsating with the lives of its inhabitants, of those who populated it. Of rich men and poor men, and women virtuous and sinful, and of everyone else between.
The two bangles on her arm clinked and tinkled as she brushed her teeth and adjusted her dark hair, looking at herself in the mirror with a critical eye. She paused over each flaw, imagined or real, put off with their sheer number as she always was, and then grunted as she ambled to her own bedroom again. It wouldn't do to fret. Her nimble fingers worked with practiced efficiency as she wrapped the simple saree around her petite frame, barely pausing to glance at her own work, as her generous curves were wrapped one by one, held hostage by the cotton covering her mocha-coloured body. She worked quickly, quietly, even as her mind went over her many responsibilities for the day. There was breakfast to be made, and some cleaning to be done. At 7, she would awake her husband and her children, and pray to her gods as they dressed and freshened. They would eat, mostly in silence, for there was little they did not already know of each other. The children would laugh, and sometimes bicker, and she would raise her voice ever so slightly when they became a little too heated. She would rise and pack their lunch as they prepared to leave. He would peruse his newspaper, with his customary glass of milk brought to him at just the right temperature, just the right amount of sugar. She would take care of these things. Then they would leave, the children and their father, and she would softly peck each, wishing them a good day.
She thought absently of the choices for breakfast as she affixed her bindi to her forehead, and adjusted the mangalsutra around her neck, both proclaiming the fact of her marriage far and wide, as effectively as any certificate one might produce. And just as she began to leave the room towards her kitchen, she heard him say her name.
"Meera."
She turned around and glanced at the clock. 6:39.
"Ji". Yes.
He smiled at her warmly, propping himself on one elbow, as she looked at him in mingled surprise and happiness.
"Come here, my dear."
She obeyed, raising her eyebrows ever so slightly as she walked towards him and sat by him on the bed.
"You are awake early today", she told him, smiling. It was not a question.
He nodded.
"It was the sound of your jewelry as you dressed."
"Oh? Well, I'm sorry, I --"
