just now
He doesn't see forever when he looks at her.
He doesn't see gray hairs and grandchildren sitting by a fireplace (actual or constructed by by branches). He doesn't picture Christmases (white or hot andsandy) and family portraits, finger paintings on a fridge. He doesn't think of good morning's and pecks on the cheek (before leaving for work or hunting for boar). He doesn't dream of happily ever afters or weddings (in churches or under palm trees).
He doesn't see months or weeks, or even hours. The minutes that shift into one another gradually are all that's there. He sees damp curls and lips. He sees fingers in hair and sand plastered to sweat slicked backs. He can see nails digging in skin and friction between palm and belly. Gasps and screams that don't spring from fear. He sees mirrored scars and moments, fractions of moments when things just are. Seconds when the deep breaths of humid air and tropic heat filtering into his skin are just bad, and not horrible.
He doesn't see salvation, he just sees now.