M. looked beyond his shoulder. Disheveled hair, the faint smell of sleep, the warmth of her body streaming out the cover's end. M's wife was still at his side, about to wake up. His own life seemed to concentrate in this instant of waking up and recognize his sleeping companion, blissfully unaware of whatever he might think. M was a migrant, a migrant of country and a migrant of people. To say goodbye was no small death for M. It was more of another step in not being recognized, in waking up to a world of sleepers. Beloved ones, hated ones, irrelevant ones. Sleepers all the same. To migrate is to loose your own substance, your presence. Even better: to migrate is to refuse loosing oneself into the life's of others. Migrate and become the uninvited and unacknowledged guest that is not there, that even when placed in front of your eyes, would not be seen. Have you ever got into a conversation with the cleaner of an airport toilet? Of course you haven't. Migrants strive for invisibility and M. was no exception. Let her sleep, busy with her own dreams and nightmares. Who would want to confront her with the undeniable otherness of her husband? Not M. The wet dreams of progressive politicians, that society where diversity would be cherished and praised, belonged only into their meetings and manifestos. Out there, in the real world where M. lived, diversity was not praised. Terrorists and fanatics where thwarted and poor descriptions of others, sure, but M. had no interest in the education of strangers. Let then be, let them sleep on. M. preferred a world of sleepers talking to each other, a slumbering city involved in its own nightmares for as long he could remain awake, and apart.

M. sensed her waking up. Something in her warmth, in the rhythm of her breathing. Sensing it, M changed. The idea of being awake in a world of sleepers melted away with her smell invading and overpowering him. Her leg coiled on his, and her nose hid in the inside of his shoulder. So much for solitude and independence, so much for the romantic and solitary hero of a cheap pulp fictional thriller. A sarcastic smile grew on him. The world outside might be indeed a nightmarish combination of scared idiots, but it did not matter anyway. Here and now she was waking up on him. And just as her slumber receded away, his mood cleared up. M the migrant of people was not about to migrate again, not quite yet. He was here and now, just another confounded human waking up in Europe. Uninvited and unacknowledged? Perhaps out there. But not now, not in this room. A finger curled on his chest, a fist opened and without wanting it, caressed him. They were awake.

She knew of his being awake before her. He is awake and thinking about me, said the same voice that commanded her to wake up a second ago. He is neither happy. The fear of being left behind tackled her once more. What to do? Weren't her efforts enough? She has carved a place for him in her own life. Undemanding as he seemed to be, she knew from the first time they meet that if he was going to stay around, she must make a space for him herself. And she certainly wanted him to stay. Sure, perhaps another man would have been better. Or easier. Their first months they even have to build a shared language, nor his Spanish, nor her Dutch. There was a time of careful commitment, of painfully giving up long established routines. And still, years on, they hang on to each other. She wondered as much as him about living with somebody else. Could she pick her life on as it was before M? Probably not, even if she would want to. Aware of his fantasized detachment, she gave as much space as she could, guessing that he was doing pretty much the same. And still he was scary. He is not like me. And again, who is? More than once he has tried to tell that to migrate is to marry, and to marry is to migrate. Probably, even though something must be escaping her. What does he actually feel about this country of mine, my body? She would not know. Neither he, for all what matters. With the thinking that he might actually be as insecure as herself she finally wake up. Morning. Morning.