Sunday morning

She had woken up an hour ago, but she stayed in bed. It was very warm here. She inched her face forward until it touched an arm and rested her cheek against it. The skin was smooth and soft and warm. Her eyes followed the curve of the arm along the slope of the shoulder up to his face. The eyes were closed, the lips slightly ajar, the breathing barely audible.

She saw his hand resting at his side with the palm side up and fingers curled open, inviting. She reached with her hand and slowly interlaced her fingers with his. This was their most intimate moment, this feigned display of affection. She closed her eyes and imagined they were on the street and he was holding her hand, unashamed, proud, adoring. She'd look up at his face and beam and he'd smile back at her and tell her he loved her.

But here in her room she was enclosed and concealed. It was he. And it was she. There was no "they." "They" did not exist.

Her friends told her he was bad and wrong, that she deserved better. She knew this but she couldn't help it. He was a sweet pain in the back of her throat, a wonderful throbbing ache inside her chest.

Yes there were unreturned phone calls, last minute plans and uncertainty. But all of it became worth it the moment he called her with his smiling voice, that voice that wove explanations and sweet apologies; she welcomed all his lies. And all her frantic phone calls to friends and fears that he would abandon her forever were laid to rest the moment she saw him standing outside her door. Everything became perfect again.

The arm beneath her cheek shifted. The hand uncurled. His breathing changed and she looked up at him expectantly.

"What time is it?" he mumbled. His eyes were still closed.

"Almost eleven," she whispered.

He sat up. "Shit, I've gotta go."

She held onto his hand. "It's Sunday."

"I've gotta go," he repeated. He shook his hand free and got out of bed. "Where are my pants?"

"On the chair I think," she said sitting up, hugging the sheet to herself.

He walked to the chair and started dressing.

She tossed her hair a few times and cleared her throat. "Um, so maybe I'll see you later this week then?" she asked.

"Huh," he said.

"Okay," she murmured. She watched him finish buttoning his shirt and then put on his shoes. First the left foot. Then the right. That's how he always did it.

"All right." He slipped on his jacket. "Bye."

"Bye," she said to his back as he left the room.

She heard the front door open for a second and then shut. And then silence. She remained sitting up, blinking, hoping that maybe he had forgotten his watch or a cufflink like he did occasionally. She waited for the soft knock on her door, the adorable smirk, the kiss on her lips that would never come.

She flopped back into bed. The pillow was cool now. She looked where he had just lain. The sheets still had the hollow of his shape. She slipped into his space, wrapped herself beneath the sheet and closed her eyes.

It was still warm.