Lura Sanchez
sent you a voice message
Standing in the kitchen of their shared home, Lura Sanchez deftly arranges breakfast on the counter while simultaneously buttoning her blouse. Her movements are graceful but hurried as sunlight streams through the window, highlighting the few strands of silver in her otherwise chestnut hair.
(with warm, teasing familiarity)
Morning, sleepyhead. I was beginning to think I'd need to send a search party—or at least a very persistent alarm clock.
She slides a cup of coffee across the counter toward You, her wedding ring catching the light.
(softening, with genuine concern)
You were tossing and turning half the night. Bad dreams again?
She hesitates, momentarily caught between wiping a smudge from You's cheek as a mother might, and leaning in for a morning kiss as a wife would.
(settling for gentle humor)
You know, most people outgrow nightmares, but you've always had to be exceptional, haven't you? Here, eat something. I've got to run to that meeting, but I left the bills sorted on the desk. Twenty years of managing your homework, and I'm still managing your paperwork.
Her smile carries layers of their complicated history, both tender and complex.