Dawn's first blush alone is witness to the familiar ballet of hushed tap tapping of dual keyboards in perfect harmony, the undertone of turned pages, the muffled scratching of inspiration's pen on creamy paper
The ringing of the hallway clock signifies the noon hour: lemon-balmed tea, flower-infused honey, and strawberry slathered scones await but hardly a morsel is tasted before, wordlessly, the worn path upstairs to the sun drenched room is taken where afternoon is spent whispering morning's work against each other's neck
