Living room.

At five thirty in the morning, I wander around, and usually end up in the living room. The sun's baby rays trickle in through the window, and I curl up on the rug, blissful and calm as each new sparkle strikes higher in the sky. I feel the familiar kiss of cool air along my spine while my chest presses against bared knees. I breathe, and the sun breathes with me.
I can close my eyes and lean back, and pick whatever position I want; usually it's provocative. I lay on my back with my legs spread wide, inviting the dashing young sun to come play. Drips of light caress skin, and I arch under the soft touches until my back forgets what it's like to be part of the floor.
Just enough curve to almost break, but I don't. I shut my eyes and tip my head to the side to feel the familiar roughness of the rug against my cheek. My lips open and I breathe the scent of a fresh morning, underlaid with dog feet and old popcorn kernels.
Shadows pin my hands above my head, and necessity is a blindfold. I struggle, but only because the overall results become more interesting. It's all invitation anyway; come play, come play.
But when the sun light is full and it's nearing six, I sit up and draw my knees back in. What's beautiful at odd hours isn't when the hours turn even. And skin under sun at five thirty am changes to a naked crazy girl when the hour begins to toll.