he thought standing at the window. The morning cold hit his face viciously, the wind blowing, as he sucked the cigarette into his mouth. His wife lay under the warm blankets, huddled as if in a cave. Occasionally she would make her morning sounds - a murmur, a sigh, in his mind, something intimate, meant only for him.
The wind she slapped at his face again. He heard the rustle and then the start of a child's wail from the other room. His morning had begun.