It’s just after three in the morning, and she’s sleeping with her feet out the window. Too hot, you see. The threat of spiders crawling in and wrapping her in a web is a very real one, but she chances it just the same. Outside, you can hear the cries of the feral lot as they prowl the streets looking for fights and a way out of the misery of their creationless lives. Unlike us, they won’t look up at the stars talking about love and loss, no, they’ll just grunt and curse and foam at the mouth at the sight of someone to beat up or a piece of skirt to chase in the hope of finding someone too inebriated to resist their urges. In packs they roam, and as I smoke my cigarette watching the news with the volume turned down, she just lies there at the foot of the bed with both hands beneath her head as beads of rain dance upon her toes. She’s so oblivious to it. Those horrors. She doesn’t notice them at all. Part of me is thankful, and yet it doesn’t do much for my peace of mind knowing I’m alone to face them by myself. Still, that she’s wrapped in her dreams is good enough, and even though I’m not tired, and I sit here in silence as the hours pass one after the other without so much as a word, there’s a sense of calm in my heart knowing she’s safe from harm of which I wouldn’t trade for anything.