The winds of change.
The winds of a rising morning.
As the air currents flow about playfully, flicking at fallen leaves and the extended pieces of clothing of the few passersby on the sidewalk, the sun rises above the horizon, then above the tree lines—splintering light around the buildings blocking it—and finally over the roofs of the high-rise buildings.
The splintered light quickly coalesces back together, creating rays of light that splatter the walls and windows of the urban housing. One of these rays finds its way to an unprotected window, right onto some sleeping figures.
"Uggh…"
One of the figures, once cocooned in covers, blinks blearily, rubbing at their covered eyes.
"Honey, you left the curtains open last night, again." the man says with an exasperated tone, a slur in his voice.
The response that greets him is a soft, contented snore.
The man rolls out of bed, throwing the covers off of him—nearly half of the cover now lays on the floor—and makes his way to the window. As he peeks out, greeted by the living city, he closes his eyes and breathes in, and with a rise and fall of his shoulders he opens his eyes once more, some of the sleep fading from his form, throws the curtains fully open from the ajar state.
His action is followed by a groan, not unlike his own, from the direction of the bed; a smile, small but mischievous, rises on his face.
He approaches the bed, climbing his way back onto it towards his partner.
As he reaches her, he pokes her sides.
"Honey…." he calls, like a song.
"Hrmmgh."
With a softer smile he removes the covers from her head, causing her to stir and look up at him with dissatisfied eyes.
He gives her a peck on her forehead; her eyes close at the touch.
"Good morning." he whispers against her skin.
"Mornin'..." she answers with an even greater slur than he.
"Time to get up."
"Do we have to?"
"The day waits for no one, my love."
With a roll of her eyes, she throws the covers at him, her body filled with a certain spiteful energy at his awakening of her.
"Let's get to it then." she announces, heading toward the bathroom.
They both work around each other seamlessly, reaching over one another for a toothbrush here, toothpaste there, hair spray under there, and a bottle of cologne up here.
By the time they exit the bathroom some of her hair spray has made its way onto his hair and some of his cologne wafts off her.
They quickly gather their clothes. Him searching through drawers and grabbing only his dress shirt and under shirt from the walk-in closet, and her in the walk-in observing her options.
"You'll look beautiful in anything you wear, honey." he calls out from the bedroom.
"Varying in what I dress in is important, dear." she retorts with a tone that brokers no argument.
"Of course, love."
After getting dressed they make their way downstairs, and the usual combined effort of lunch assembly ensues. He grabs the bread and bags, she grabs the deli meats and cheese, he grabs a banana for him and an apple for her.
As they exit their home, locking the door behind them as always, they share a kiss goodbye as they part ways for work. Just like every morning, he goes off to his office job where he manages and observes their profit margins, and she heads off to her law firm, ready to cycle through what cases she's received today.
They enjoy the routine. Why can't a routine be joyful? They get to see each other every morning and every night; that's all that matters to them.