On the very edge of sleep, while them two laid down and brushed fingers against each other’s hair. Their heads on the pillows and their feet playfully hanged outside the blankets, in a soft, loving whisper he’d ask: “Sing to me”.
She wouldn’t reply anything but a sweet and old tune, back from the fifteenth century. In a low voice and very close to his ears –almost becoming a kiss–.
His eyes looked up, as in a plea to hear her song, and with a last glaze she’d start...
"Did you ever hear tell of a young maid in need
Of a handsome young lover who's anxious to please
It's a pity that such a handsome young fellow as me
Must sit here while the nightingale sings in the tree"
-Loretta
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