I love to take pictures of my husband, asleep. Especially when we're travelling. There is something about the body asleep. There is no debate: there it is. The one you love, like you, is simply a lump.
The duvet wraps around him like some kind of an art project, or maybe a long ago discovered mummy, or a crime scene.
There is something so tender about having a camera in your hand, and peeping at your true love, off in dreamland.
I got down low, to shoot, so as not to show his head, but only the curve of his body, under the duvet.
I would know that that was him, anywhere. My darling D.
We were in Barcelona. He was taking a pre-tapas nap, up in our little rented attic studio in the old fishermen and factory part of Barcelona, the Born, still called La Ribera, by locals. The light was October late afternoon through the sheer curtains. I peeped at his body through the folding door opening.
It was two days after our 26th wedding anniversary.
October 14, 2011. 15:32 hours.
That lump was the beloved I married.
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