On the fifth day we invented the bed, with sheets that were bright and secret like mother-of-pearl. And the nights became safe and soft like honey, as we lay nestled in our new invention, as small children in a pram under linden trees; we would watch the thunder roar, like the child would watch the branches move and hear the leaves whisper over the pram on September evenings. And when the thunder ebbed away at times, the light would turn the sheets into a bright and foaming water around your wondrous shapes, humming siren songs to my thirsty ears.
We should have invented this a long time ago, I said, and you smiled. We should stay here forever, I said, and you looked away, biting your lip, though I didn’t know why at the time.
On the fifth day, we invented the bed. With sheets and pillows and a strange void in the middle.