The alarm went off at five o’clock sharp. Peter stretched his sheet-wrinkled arm across the short expanse of the twin bed, only to find that his mate had already risen. He didn’t know how she did it. She was always up just as late waiting up for him but somehow managed to get up a half hour earlier without using the alarm to wake her.

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Pacing barefoot, dragging her feet over the highly polished hardwood floor of her 1,000 square foot, L-shaped, mini-loft. Fiona looked across the open living area, decorated in what she liked to call “tropical minimalism.”

Two tall palm trees stood in the far opposite corners of the room, their fronds gently grazing the 13-foot ceiling. A hammock hung in front of the apartments only window. It was actually a large sliding glass door, stretching from floor to ceiling.

It lead out onto a small, no correct that, a very small terrace. Neighbors used their outdoor spaces to store bicycles, ironing boards, ab rollers, things of that nature.

Fiona chose to use the meager space as a flower box. She loved the smell of the soil; the feel of it in her hands, caring for each tender young sprout or tiniest of seed as wonderfully as she treated the rest of God’s creatures. Not to mention all of the pretty flowers that seemed always in bloom no matter what season.

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