The radio is blaring, sounds of car engines in the street trickle with early morning winter light into the bedroom. The children are stumbling bleary-eyed to the bathroom and back to get dressed. Sleepy choruses of “Happy Morning!” chime through the rooms.
His Nibs raises himself up on an elbow and says, “Good morning, love.”
And gets punched in the chest.
“THAT,” cenobyte growls, “is for making out in a bus with your friend’s wife.”
Poor His Nibs rubs his chest, his face a geography of confusion. Then cenobyte pokes him in the ribs.
“And THAT,” cenobyte continues, “is for **not inviting me**. Jerk.”
“Wh…but…wh…co…um…” His Nibs stammers.
“Yeah, whatever, bucko. Don’t try making excuses NOW. It’s too bloody late. Also: I love you.”
It is at this point cenobyte usually storms out of the room because she realises how ridiculous it is for her to be *this mad* at someone for something they did *in a dream*. Sometimes, the vivid and remembery dreams are Just No Good. Thankfully, by now, His Nibs is starting to get used to it. Starting.