He sleeps soundly, in an unfamiliar apartment I slink from beneath his crushing arm. Stronger than I recall it being the night before, remembering the way he hovered above me, the look of desire in his eyes. The light woke me, earlier than usual and 6:30 found me awake and wondering how many times I should have been here before. It felt oddly like home.
I pull the white sheet around my naked body. It laid there carelessly on the floor without memory of the discarded clothing and the raw pawing that comes with tequila shots and years of pent up tension. The black bra thrown across that landed precisely on the monitor of the computer where he spends his days writing. The panties I wore the night before, hanging like a trophy on the bedpost.
I don’t bother dressing, I know there is no one else in the place but him and I can make an omelet with one hand holding a toga-like sheet like nothing you have ever seen. I brew coffee, the way he tells me he likes it, and I stick it to memory.
I read the books on his shelves, dusty and disorganized. I loved that about him. He was always an open book begging to be read. I pulled his CD's out one by one, giggling at his music and the difference between our tastes. I touch my lips, reminding myself of the way he kissed with all of his passion behind it.
He wakes, and he stretches, and I kiss his forehead, holding my sheet tightly around my chest. There was no unexplained "what now." we smiled at each other, and he pulled me back into the crook of his arm.
"I smell coffee" he says, and I smile into his face.
"But there is something I must have first"
He rips the sheet from me, and covers me with his own body.
Taking me in his arms and pulling my body to his own. We made love while Tchaikovsky played on the stereo.
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