In the morning I know he’s gone before I even open my eyes. The bed is empty beside me, my arms wrapped around nothing but his pillow. The sheets smell old and unused as I stretch myself awake. He took the lamp with him—it’s not on the table between the chairs—and cleaned out the fireplace. There are no ashes left, no wood chips, nothing to suggest it had blazed the night before. My clothes are where I dropped them on the floor but his are gone. He could have at least woken me up before he left. I didn’t even get his number.
But he works at the glasshouse. I’ll stop by there on my lunch break and say hi, flirt some more, see if I can convince him to stay at my place tonight. He’s not getting away so fast.
I dress in my rumpled costume and wish I could take a shower. My clothes feel too l
