His Bony Foot

Again she rose at dawn, she always was the one who had the fortitude to rise and shine, at six as if it were required, by unwritten rules of married life. A mass of white gray hair confronted her as a reflection of age and life's shenanigans, there would be double doses of rejuvenating Henna, soon. She heard his plaintiff snore, and glanced but briefly into the room where he would stay until enticed by odours of Moccona. She turned and covered now his bony foot, it must be cold not ready for the day's routine. Some fifty years had come and gone, each morning it had been, by order of some universal force the same damn foot that peeked. She'd never failed to mother it, regardless of the season and of his depth of sleep. But always with a tiny, wicked smile.