"What shall I write today"? Thought Simon.

The Sun shone into his room, importing a particular optimism to his somewhat befuddled brain. "I'll have to start on my novel – as soon as I've had breakfast" he said to his reflection in the shaving mirror. He was proud of his chin, which was rather weak, but well disguised by a Van Dyke goatee (he told no one about the black dye – even himself). 

He spent several minutes on his eyebrows, plucking the stray hairs that had recently made an appearance, like weeds beside a well tended bed, and finally, he inspected his teeth, smile, and carefully disguised receding hairline before whistling a snatch of "oh, what a wonderful morning" to himself as he skipped along the hallway towards the kitchen.

It was a few moments before he realised that someone was sitting at the table, sitting, in fact, at his place, on his favourite chair. "How the devil did you get in" said, irritation colouring his voice. But the figure made no response, or indication that she had heard him it all. he strode around the table, sat down, and looking straight into her eyes repeated "how the devil did you get in here"?

"You let me in, last night, remember"!

Simon didn't remember.

"Faustian pact"? She said, the trace of a smile on her crimson lips.