It’s getting cold, would you please close the window. I had to climb over her body in order to get out of bed, and as I awkwardly did so, our eyes met, and my body automatically came to rest, held in tranquil abeyance directly above hers. Why are you looking at me like that? The words issued from under her breath. I did not answer, but she was right. The looking-glass above the bed spoke volumes; the strange air of composure which enveloped and transfigured my face was altogether questionable. The pupil of her left eye expanded in a sudden dilation until it occupied the diaphragm, almost entirely obfuscating the iris, a darkened rock vehemently pushing its way up to the surface of the encircling waters. It then retracted, propelling the waves into vertiginous ripples across the luminous green disc. An ocean of possibilities. I could not be certain as to what she desired from me, whether she wanted me to linger in that position, to advance further, or to leave her in peace, so in an effort to avoid unnecessary contemplations and potentially painful confusion, I planted a carefully devised kiss on her forehead as compromise. I then shuffled hurriedly to the window. I peered out, or rather, I attempted to peer out the window, since, outside the darkness was so dense, so ubiquitous, that it was if the window looked out unto an omnipresent nothingness. Not even vague silhouettes or obscure outlines, not a single specter foreshadowing a visibly near-present existence. Nor could I discern that close to inaudible breathing of things, the dawdling, winged droning of joined worlds that remains when everything else has fallen into silent slumber. Nothing to indicate that life stirred outside the confines of the room. If it had not been for a sole persisting remnant, the last surviving proof – frost – gnawing away at my arms, as they rested on the windowsill, like an infinitesimal icy legion of pronging fangs, I would have believed that the universe had somehow been emptied of its content. In fact, the hushed darkened negation was so convincing that I began to doubt whether the world had ever existed in the first place. I shut the window, thereby erasing the last remainder of reality exterior to that of our own. Encapsulating us within a private sphere of being, entrenching a selfinclosed region from which not even the minutest flicker of light could escape. Time is likewise ours now, I thought: this would perhaps provide the chance to restructure the room, in its entirety, as we had fantasized about on numerous occasions, coiled around each other in bed.