From her perch on the peeling-paint windowsill, she stared across the room at his sleeping form. Overwhelmed and even a little afraid of his presence here, she chewed at her right thumbnail, her left hand clutching a mug of atrocious instant coffee that she'd microwaved like a ninja, flinging open the door at 0:01, so the fire-alarm level beep wouldn't wake him. Clad in only a tshirt and a pair a Playboy printed boxer shorts that she'd stolen from a Spencer's Gifts when she was sixteen, she continued to stare, ignoring the inner voice lecturing her on how creepy she would appear if he opened his eyes right now. Pulling her hand from her mouth, it fell to her side where she began to idly pick at the chipped paint, sipping her coffee slowly.
The Morning After. She really had never had one before. Her usual routine was very simple: Either she quickly left immediately after the deed was done, or she stared at the ceiling, wide awake, until she heard her partner's breathing grow shallow, stealthily easing herself out of his bed, or off the couch, and tiptoed out, only to speak to him again when one of them sent that late night invitation text. If he fell asleep with her still in his grasp, it took all her willpower not to fall into a panic, feeling trapped and restricted.
But not last night.
Her lips still burned from the sensual, exploratory kiss they'd shared before falling asleep, so many shades different than the feverish one she'd frantically laid upon him the previous night, pulling him into the dark narrow space between two buildings on their way to her apartment, her need to meld with him outweighing any possible wish for privacy, her actions belying nearly all the principles that she'd told him she had when they first met.
She had already told herself this this night before, but as she let her eyes appreciate the way her bedsheets looked haphazardly wrapped around his torso, as she heard herself consider waking up to that sight daily, she felt she had to remind herself, I am so fucked.
The Morning After. She really had never had one before. Her usual routine was very simple: Either she quickly left immediately after the deed was done, or she stared at the ceiling, wide awake, until she heard her partner's breathing grow shallow, stealthily easing herself out of his bed, or off the couch, and tiptoed out, only to speak to him again when one of them sent that late night invitation text. If he fell asleep with her still in his grasp, it took all her willpower not to fall into a panic, feeling trapped and restricted.
But not last night.
Her lips still burned from the sensual, exploratory kiss they'd shared before falling asleep, so many shades different than the feverish one she'd frantically laid upon him the previous night, pulling him into the dark narrow space between two buildings on their way to her apartment, her need to meld with him outweighing any possible wish for privacy, her actions belying nearly all the principles that she'd told him she had when they first met.
She had already told herself this this night before, but as she let her eyes appreciate the way her bedsheets looked haphazardly wrapped around his torso, as she heard herself consider waking up to that sight daily, she felt she had to remind herself, I am so fucked.