Free She Woke Up Married by Suzanne Macpherson

the wet sand until the sun pulled full out above the horizon.
    Then his mother would call to him. She was the other early riser. They’d sit on the steps and share the fruit, bread, and tea she always brought. She’d put honey in his tea, and milk, and put it in a fat blue willow mug she’d gottenat the local market. After a while his father would appear at his desk just inside, say good morning, and smile at them both. They had no windows, just board flaps for when the rains came, so it was like his father was sitting with them on the porch.
    There was something so comforting about that memory. Father writing his thoughts in his old green journal, which might work into a sermon for the following Sunday. Mom with her morning picnic on the steps. The smell of the ocean, the ripe mangos they were sharing, the scent of Father’s coffee.
    Sometimes his father would discuss ideas with his mother as they sat there, the windowless space between them. Turner had loved listening to them talk.
    Turner wondered whether Paris had any comforting memories at all. He wanted to make some for her. He wanted her to know this feeling—to have a backlog of happiness to draw on.
    When the light flowed in the window enough to see around the apartment, Turner slipped quietly out of Paris’s bed and into the cold morning air. He tucked the quilts around her, then crossed over to the sofa and found his duffle bag. He quickly dressed in some sweats and running shoes and his warm coat. He’d better run out for some breakfast items, because from what he’d seen in Paris’s fridge, he’d either shop or starve.Turner slipped out the door as noiselessly as possible, with Paris’s key from the hall tree in his pocket.
     
    Paris rolled over and thought about getting up, but it was so chilly. She pulled the covers higher over her naked shoulders and snuggled back in. But her mind had already started up, and she couldn’t slip back into sleep.
    She lay in bed and remembered her bad dream. Then she remembered Turner’s warm body next to her in bed, and how comforting that had been. Hmm, and then how completely stunningly yummy everything had become as he’d gone quite crazy and made love to her. She let a smile cross her lips and felt his kisses still tingling there. My God, that man could kiss.
    Why wasn’t he still there? She pouted about that for a minute. If he was still in her bed she might let him have his way with her yet again. He was so terribly good at having his way.
    But now what was she going to do with him? He probably thought that all meant something. He probably thought she was going to decide to let him stay and be married to her and all that insanity. The rest of her problems started to pile up on her mind, and she reached over to the bedside table to fumble for the clock.
    She found the clock easily, which was very odd. It made her sit up a tiny bit and look at thetable. Instead of stacks of plates, her cup from last night, books and Twinkie wrappers, there was a bare surface. You could actually see the painted wood under the glass top. There was her lamp, and the reproduction Big Ben clock, and nothing else. Was she in the wrong apartment?
    A sound from the kitchen made her sit straight up and stare. It was the clink of pots and pans. Paris noticed that the kitchen looked strikingly cleaner than it had when she’d gone to sleep. And something smelled good, too.
    “Good morning,” Turner smiled at her from the kitchen.
    She remembered his warm, naked body and him moving into her again in a little rush of a moment that made her head spin. A smile played across her lips, but she suppressed it. She didn’t reply.
    Sitting up hadn’t gone well with her. She felt crappy. It was too early or something. Bleackk. Paris slumped back against the pillows and pulled the covers up and around her bare chest.
    “I’ve made breakfast. Shall I deliver it to you?”
    “I don’t do breakfast,” she croaked.
    “Miracles happen,”