The next morning she wakes before I do, which means I am immediately immersed in her attentions. She's nervous, but in a way she likes. Her whole being is abuzz, thrumming with happiness. She wonders if it can last forever. She's been told, probably, that it can't; that eventually this glow will ebb, time will round the edges off, and it will just become the mundane contentment she's seen for others, but she's not sure whether it's true. Her life began last night when she said I do; this is a new world and anything is possible, if only she can will it to be. She's nervous that something she says or does will push the moment down towards the mundane; she wants to keep it just the way it is forever. I bask in her adoration like a vacationeer from a cloud-covered land soaking up sunlight for the first time in months. She cherishes the morning because she thinks it can last if she's careful; I cherish it because I know precisely how fleeting her affection will prove to be. The window in which I could have avoided breaking her heart and ruining her life, however long it was open, is firmly closed now. She doesn't know it, but we're only waiting for the end.

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