He’s gone in the morning.
I’m not surprised. Naked, I disentangle my legs from the sheets and stretch out on the bed, which still holds his warmth where he curled against me in sleep. My body aches with the memory of him in me, his body above mine, pressing me into the mattress. I imagine I can still hear the quiet creak of the wooden bed frame and the slight bump of the headboard against the wall with each thrust. I still feel him in me, on me, his hands phantoms roaming my body, his lips ghosts on my own. I’m falling for this one, I really think I am, and it’s an exciting whirlwind, terrible and wonderful all at the same time.
Downstairs, I’m halfway to the door when Angela spies me. “Nick!” she cries, exasperated. She steps in front of me with her hands on her hips and blocks my exit.
