I listened to his breathing, pulsing in and out in a soft symphony, watching as the rise and fall of his chest pushes the covers over his body. There's stubble on his chin, these short red hairs pricking up from pale pink skin. I press my leg against his, seeking out the warm, the texture of his toned quads.
It's much easier to lay beside him rather than on top of him. I thought of all those romantic movies that I had ever seen and how in every single one, couples were saddled up next to one another, intertwined in such contorted positions that one was sure to get some sort of cramp. No, it was far better to simply have my skin touch his, to feel our bodies mingle without actually doing so.
My mother would say that this is so typical. That girl, she would say, never liked to be touched. She was never an affectionate child. I swear, I can't image the type of mother she is going to be. I just don't know what I could have done to make her different.
Something to that effect is always the topic of our weekly phone conversations. Tomorrow will be another appointment in which I will spend the better part of two hours being bitched at for my poor life choices. I'm sure tomorrow will ultimately touch on my new relationship. Something along the lines of "living in sin" will surely be uttered.
He gasps. This sort of breathing, reminiscent of sleep apnea, makes me jolt, blinking abruptly and bring me back to the ever present darkness. The alarm clock casts a blue haze over the crumpled socks and wrinkled undergarments. Frowning, I turn towards the wall in an effort to escape the azure florescence. My skin lifts off of his and slides back onto the cool comfort of the empty space. My space. I run my toes along the smooth surface, tracing circles in the vast covers. As I bring my body to rest, sinking into the pleasant nothingness of a dream universe, I listen for his breathing. It's slow, steady, comforting. And it's distant. It's perfect.
---
"I didn't know that these eggs had less cholesterol. Is that why they can charge six dollars a carton for something I can normally get for 89 cents?"
It's much easier to lay beside him rather than on top of him. I thought of all those romantic movies that I had ever seen and how in every single one, couples were saddled up next to one another, intertwined in such contorted positions that one was sure to get some sort of cramp. No, it was far better to simply have my skin touch his, to feel our bodies mingle without actually doing so.
My mother would say that this is so typical. That girl, she would say, never liked to be touched. She was never an affectionate child. I swear, I can't image the type of mother she is going to be. I just don't know what I could have done to make her different.
Something to that effect is always the topic of our weekly phone conversations. Tomorrow will be another appointment in which I will spend the better part of two hours being bitched at for my poor life choices. I'm sure tomorrow will ultimately touch on my new relationship. Something along the lines of "living in sin" will surely be uttered.
He gasps. This sort of breathing, reminiscent of sleep apnea, makes me jolt, blinking abruptly and bring me back to the ever present darkness. The alarm clock casts a blue haze over the crumpled socks and wrinkled undergarments. Frowning, I turn towards the wall in an effort to escape the azure florescence. My skin lifts off of his and slides back onto the cool comfort of the empty space. My space. I run my toes along the smooth surface, tracing circles in the vast covers. As I bring my body to rest, sinking into the pleasant nothingness of a dream universe, I listen for his breathing. It's slow, steady, comforting. And it's distant. It's perfect.
---
"I didn't know that these eggs had less cholesterol. Is that why they can charge six dollars a carton for something I can normally get for 89 cents?"
