The credits of the movie rolled to an end.
The glass jug with the strange cocktail concoction reached its bottom.
The conversation drew to a still.
The wind blew into the room through the slight opening in the windows.
The candle had reached its end and fluttered weakly towards its inevitable demise.
The head on his shoulder didn’t move.
Time stretched on.
He didn’t need to turn around to look at her to know that she was staring at the candle’s losing battle. He didn’t need to switch the channel to any other movie or show. He didn’t need to change his position. His right shoulder was past the stage of being asleep; it was now numb – he didn’t feel its existence at all.
Yet he was comfortable.