Disclaimer: Adam and Alexa belong to Davis/Panzer, not me. Note: This is my first experiment with first-person, present tense. Its companion piece, "Sunset Over Santorini," is written from Adam's point of view. Dedicated to Jim and Mary. He Sleeps by HonorH I awaken. For a moment, I'm confused—something is very different this morning. Then, as I become fully conscious, I realize that I'm in someone's embrace. In Adam's embrace. I'm laying with my head on his shoulder, and he sleeps. With that realization comes emotion, so strong it threatens to wring tears from my eyes. I remember last night, remember all that was said and done between us. He and I are one now. Never before have I felt this. Never before have I loved so completely. I raise my head from his shoulder and look at his sleeping face. He looks so young as he sleeps, his long eyelashes dark against his pale cheeks. I feel I must capture the moment. Carefully, quietly, I slip from the bed, pulling on my robe and collecting my art supplies. I take up residence in a chair by the bed and begin a simple pencil drawing. As I sketch the covers, softly rumpled as they are, I find my mind wandering quietly through the last month. I was dying when he found me. I knew that hoping for a long life was futile, and had set about the task of ending my life with some dignity. Of trying not to resent others for living, for loving, for having children and houses and minivans and mortgage payments and the temerity to complain about it all. Then I met him, and everything, everything, changed. There was still no hope for a long life . . . but there was hope for life. My pencil moves to his outline. His wonderful arms, the arms that I have come to find shelter in. All I have to do is move in close, and I'll find myself surrounded and protected by him. We were dancing just the other day at a little county fair. His arms were wrapped around me as the band played a slow song, and I started to cry. He asked me why, but I couldn't tell him. My mind had chosen that moment to play a refrain of Garth Brooks': "And I, I'm glad I didn't know The way it all would end, the way it all would go. Our lives are better left to chance I could've missed the pain, But I'd've have to miss The Dance." Adam knows the way it all will end, the way it all will go. But he's still chosen the Dance. I draw his hands. His beautiful, gentle, strong hands. The hands that have held mine tightly as we make our way through crowds, the hands that have wiped away my tears. The hands that touched my traitorous, betraying body and made it something beautiful, something that could be loved. I want to berate myself for not allowing that touch until last night, but I can't. That time we spent getting to know each other wasn't wasted. I don't think it was wasted, and neither, I know, does Adam. Not a moment has been wasted between us. Every second has had meaning. A surge of love within me causes my vision to mist, and I turn my face away from my drawing to make certain no stray tear falls on it. After a moment, the moisture recedes, and I resume my task. I draw the softly disordered hair on his head, then move to his perfect, angular features. Sleep softens their sharpness. He is more beautiful now than I have ever seen him. Or is it simply the power of the love I feel that makes him so in my eyes? His eyes open. I remember the first time I saw them, when they'd nearly caused me to drop my tray. I could spend hours looking into them. I've never been able to decide exactly what their color is. They fall somewhere in the range most people would call "hazel," but they're chameleons. Sometimes, they're green. Other times, they seem golden. They darken and lighten according to his moods, and if I look into them long enough, I begin to fancy that they've seen far more than I could ever imagine. Now, as I gaze into them, they reflect my love. He starts to move, but I forestall him with a gesture. A soft smile touches his mouth. Unable to bear it any longer, I lean across the bed and kiss him. Then I sit to complete my drawing. He watches me as I fill in the lean muscles of his chest and shoulders. My pencil hesitates as I remember their feel. It's done. I turn the drawing around so that he can see it. He holds out a hand, and I give it to him. His eyes change again. They reflect . . . wonder. As if he can't understand why I would draw him so. And after a moment, he lays down the drawing. Now he holds out his hand again, this time inviting me back into his embrace. I shed my robe and willingly go to him. We have today, this moment, and it will not be wasted. I love you, Adam.