I always awaken before Orpheus in the mornings, staring at his back until I grow impatient and summon one of my vines to tickle him. As he lays on his side, the space inside his visible ear is round and hollow like the womb of a small animal. A stroke of daylight flows through the window, highlighting the ridges of the two muscles on either side of his spine. Helios has been getting up earlier and earlier, signaling the transition from spring to summer.
The wedding is tomorrow. Orpheus and I have always wanted to marry in this liminal time; we both thrive in the pregnant potential of a changing season. Our friends–the flora and fauna, his musicians and my dryads–will be attending as well as the gods and goddesses. I especially can’t wait to see Persephone upon her return to Earth. We can’t even contact each other for half the year. Turns out there’s no signal in the Underworld.
Orpheus’s lyres begin to hum quiet harmonies and my orchids roll their necks, yawning with tiny mouths. It’s time to wake up. A vine from the hanging jasmine plant slowly meanders over and sneaks into his ear. He jolts upright with a yelp, clutching his head while I laugh wildly. Our apartment is small but overflowing with different kinds of music.
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