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“I was… lying in bed.”
“Ah. I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No.”
“And what were you doing, lying there?”
“Waiting for sleep to come.”
“Just lying still?”
“Yes…”
“How passive of you.”
“Is there an active way of waiting for sleep?”
“Well — counting sheep, say. Or trying to read some monstrously dull book?”
It struck him all at once that romance was exactly this. Words with no purpose, conversation with no efficiency in it whatsoever. Letting finite time run mercilessly away. That kind of romance was the very heart of being lovers, of any relationship where affection is...
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