He loved her with a strong but easy kind of love, a love that always had in the back of its mind a tomorrow. He was always content just to kiss her, hold her in his arms, and fall away into a deep, gentle sleep, like an old dog by a fireplace. It was the sleep of assurance - that she would be there forever, for an infinite time, looking just as she did, ready to greet the morning with a smile and a sense of beginning again. It was her, though, who always dragged him on top of her to tease him into passion. It was not that she had any intentions seperate from his - to be with him until some kind of unknown time, some of kind of misty future occurence denied by them both - but that she had no illusions that intentions alone are enough to drive away the mist. She was always plagued by the uncertainty of the tomorrow, the absolute unknown, obsessed with chance, with fate, with change. That was why she rolled on top of him, under him, lost in the feel of his body - she knew, as he could not, the inevitability of time.