curtains raising

The room had a high Victorian ceiling and there was a marble fireplace and an avocado tree growing in the window, and she lay beside me sleeping in a very well-built blond way.
And I was asleep, too, and it was just starting to be dawn in September.
1964.
Then suddenly, without any warning, she sat up in bed, waking me instantly, and she started to get out of bed. She was very serious about it.
“What are you doing?” I said.
Her eyes were wide open.
“I’m getting up,” she said.
They were a somnambulist blue.
“Get back in bed,” I said.
“Why?” she said, now halfway out of bed with one blond foot touching the floor.
“Because you’re still asleep,” I said.
“Ohhh … OK,” she said. That made sense to her and she got back into bed and pulled the covers around herself and cuddled up close to me. She didn’t say another word and she didn’t move.
She lay there sound asleep with her wanderings over and mine just beginning. I have been thinking about this simple event for years now. It stays with me and repeats itself over and over again like a pale marble movie.