Echoes sometimes get hung up in darkened corners. They whispered to her as she made her way to the bathroom.
She left the light off in there too. An industrious stream snuck in behind a blind, and slightly illuminated the small, clean, white room.
She looked at herself in the mirror.
Her eyes were tired, but happy.
Her hair was a mess. The love child of friction (with pillows, sheets, walls, floors, him…) and movement and being pulled.
Her naked body looked satisfied. Loved. She was gradually learning to appreciate it. He helped.
She couldn’t see the mild stubble-burn, but she knew it was there. Everywhere.
She gently rubbed her cheek. She remembered.
She looked at the reflection of the stream of light sneaking into the bedroom. It passed through an empty soda bottle. That was hardly a rock star drink, but it refreshed after a rock star performance.
The stream of light settled on her pink and white striped bra, hanging off a lamp. She thought it was too cute to be sexy. He showed her, with words and actions, that was clearly not the case. He had managed to say something about “delicate features” before consuming her. Completely.
She turned and stood in the doorway. She looked at him, tangled in white sheets.
It was a well-earned slumber.
She caught herself sighing. She even missed him when he slept.
She walked over and slid into the bed beside him.
She put her hand on his chest. His breathing was now considerably slower than it was a few hours ago.
She kissed the top of his shoulder.
She lightly rubbed her own scratch marks on his back. She felt a little guilty. She felt a little proud.
She felt very possessive.
She snuggled in. She almost never got to be big spoon.
She closed her eyes and kissed somewhere on his back.
Sleep beckoned. She bristled. She wasn’t done memorizing the moment yet.
Sleep was determined.
She hoped that she’d have dreams about him.
She knew he’d live them with her if she did.