On warm summer days when there was little work to be done she would curl catlike into the sofa by his desk, book balanced gingerly in her lap. She always indicated that the change of scenery was to keep an eye on him, to make sure what needed to be done was done, but Roy knew better. She chose her perch not by mere practicality, but for the fact that she enjoyed the warmth of the sun on her shoulders. She was like an animal, lolling about in the summer haze, and he would watch as the heat made her drowsy and her chin dipped towards her chest. Roy knew in these instances that she would be the death of him; her beauty only became ever more present in slumber, body rising and falling with each careful breath. He would note the arch of her spine, the poetry that swam from each curve, the delicate angle of her hips. How he would long to touch her for a moment if it meant he could share in such heaven. He knew divinity had no place in his hands, though, and so he would content himself to gaze at her from a distance with the wonder of a child who believes he is that much closer to looking into the eyes of God.