Morning light in London is different from Rome.
It is softer.
Grayer.
Less demanding.
It does not flood the room.
It seeps.
Through the curtains.
Through the gaps.
Through the dust.
I wake up alone.
The other side of the bed is cool.
Marcus is already up.
I hear movement downstairs.
Water boiling.
Cupboards opening.
The hum of the refrigerator.
Domestic sounds.
Familiar.
Grounding.
I sit up.
Stretch.
Muscles stiff.
From travel.
From sleep.
From the shift in time.
I look at the clock.
Seven.
Eleanor is still asleep.
Jet lag works both ways.
I get up.
Shower.
Warm water.
Steam.
Washing off the plane.
The hotel.
The history.
Dress.
Jeans.
Sweater.
Simple.
Comfortable.
Home clothes.
Downstairs.
Kitchen.
Marcus is at the counter.
Making toast.
Eggs.
