Early morning sun. Gregory opens his eyes. Golden light cuts rectangular patterns into the ivory bed sheets, the dark mahogany of the footboard, Rosemary’s freckled back. He frowns at her narrow shoulders, the bones sticking out like wings that were once there. He listens to the easy rise and fall of her breath. He thinks about reaching over to stroke the close-cropped hair, but doesn’t want to wake her.
He touches her anyway, tracing a line down her spine, and remembers the previous night. He recalls the cold surface of the kitchen floor beneath him, the way the moonlight crept in through the windows, lending a silvery opalescence to everything it touched. He remembers curling up and turning on his side as Rosemary left him to use the bathroom, the contentment he felt at being alone. He
