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Slowly, he opens his eyes and allows them to adjust to the darkness. Without seeing the details of the room, he knows where he is and where everything should be. There is a large chest of drawers under the window, a dresser in front of the double bed and a closet to his left. He doesn't need a photographic memory for that much.

He knows that there is a hairbrush on the dresser that was used last night before she climbed into bed beside him. Half a dozen or so strands of auburn hair will reflect the sunlight when it begins to filter through the curtains later when the sun rises.

There is the picture of sunflowers that hangs above the bed, with a crack in the glass from when he hit the frame with his head, knocking it to the floor. But she refused to take it down so he could get it fixed. She called it a 'happy accident' that she wanted to remember.

There is a space in the closet now, where his bag lies. Two pairs of socks, black. Three t-shirts, grey (apparently her favourite colour on him). His running shoes, for his midnight runs. Boxers, three pairs. Shorts. He still travels back to his apartment first thing in the morning to change for work.

Then there is the splinter of wood from the floorboard just inside the door, where he stubbed his toe last night as he came from the bathroom. The woman had actually laughed as she watched him howl in pain and jump onto the bed, holding his foot. She had promised to

kiss it better for him. He'd have to see about fixing the damned board before he lost a limb. Not that he minded getting sympathy from her, or hearing her laugh.

A picture of Samantha stands on the dresser in front of the bed. It appeared one night shortly after he started spending the night at her apartment. He never asked her where she had got the copy of the photograph and he never thanked her with words. He had better ways to show his appreciation. The picture stood beside the photograph she kept of Melissa. That fact alone spoke volumes to him.

Her tattered copy of the latest Stephen King novel sat on her bedside locker with the bookmark that he had bought for her when they visited that out-of-the-way town on the a case they had six months ago. It had a picture of an alien on the top with her name circled in some neon green aluminous paint that glowed
in the dark. She was on page 293 and kept complaining that he was interrupting her with his 'incessant need for cuddling.' He simply smiled and placed the bookmark in between the pages and began to kiss her gently. He had given up reading his own novel a fortnight ago. Better forms of nighttime entertainment.

There was her tattoo. For him, it had become a part of the bedroom. Every night he stared at it as she turned her back towards her, waiting for him to spoon up against her. He still couldn't get over the fact that she had gotten it. Not that he was complaining. It was a symbol of the fact that she could keep surprising him, no matter how much he thought he knew her. The bedroom was practically the only place he could see it.

She turned around and faced him, staring at him and smiling as she began to stretch her arms above her head. Interrupting his train of thought. She tended to do that in here. Distract him. He lay on his side, propping his body up on his elbow so he could stare down at her. The sheet lay crumpled on top of her and he stared at the material, the way it lay against her skin and trailed across her abdomen.

"What are you thinking?" she asked, staring up into his eyes.

"Nothing..."

"Nothing?" she smiled as she draped her leg over his, pulling him closer and gently reaching up with the back of her hand to caress his cheek.

"Details."

Her eyebrow rose at his response. Before she could ask any further questions he ran his hand through her hair, pulling her face towards his as he kissed her neck. His body moved over hers as his lips travelled
towards her lips. He could feel the warmth of her breath on his skin. The material of her pyjama bottoms brushing against his boxers. He reached for the bottom of the t-shirt that she wore in bed and began to slowly pull it over her head, committing his favourite part of the bedroom to memory again.

Her.


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