Two sit quietly in a bed in the afternoon without any lights on, listening to cyclical music, full of comfortably intense silences, maintaining eye or physical contact, and the sun goes slowly down. The light coming through the window changes so imperceptibly that time cannot be seen passing, only its beauty is noticed. They watch each other's eyes change colors until the night surprises them. And when it's dark finally, completely, no one goes to turn on a light. They go on sitting there, definitely touching now that it's maybe too dark to see each other. Just a light, resting touch. It's too cold or too hot to move. One becomes drowsy and reclines, the other does likewise, the silences grow long and turn into dreams as both fall asleep completely warm and content. One wakes up and it's maybe eight on a winter's evening or eleven on a summer night. A fan blows on two bodies. The album from earlier cycles back on after days or hours. One is already constructing a memory of this moment, imagining it into the future, prematurely retroactive. In the darkness she can't help but fall asleep.