The Lives of Things by Jose Saramago — Read

He awoke with the distinct feeling of having been interrupted in the middle of a dream and saw before him the grey and frosty window-pane, the square, livid eye of dawn upon him, cut in the shape of a cross and dripping with condensation. He thought his wife must have forgotten to draw the curtains before going to bed, and felt irritated: unless he could get back to sleep, his day would be ruined. But he had no intention of getting up to draw the curtains: he preferred to cover his face with the sheet and turn to his wife, who was asleep, to take refuge in her warmth and in the perfume of her dishevelled hair. He waited a few more minutes, ill at ease, fearful at the morning insomnia. But then he consoled himself with the thought that bed was such a warm cocoon and with the labyrinthine presence of the body pressed against his and, almost slipping into a slow spiral of erotic images, he went back to sleep. The grey eye of the window-pane gradually turned blue, staring all the while at the two heads resting on the pillow like the forgotten remains of a removal to some other house or some other world. When the alarm went off two hours later, daylight filled the room.

He told his wife not to get up, to stay in bed a little longer, while he slipped out into the chilly atmosphere with that unmistakable sense of dampness on the walls, the door-knobs, the bath-towels. He smoked his first cigarette as he shaved and the second with his coffee which had cooled in the meantime. He coughed, as he did every morning. Then, groping for his clothes, he dressed without switching on the light. He was anxious not to awaken his wife. The refreshing fragrance of eau de Cologne enlivened the shadows, causing his wife to sigh with pleasure when her husband leaned over the bed to kiss her closed eyes. And he whispered that he would not be coming home for lunch.