Morning. They were laying in bed. The blinds were closed but the room lit up from the ambient light bouncing off the white walls. She still hadn't painted her place. It was immaculate but cold. Temporary.
She wrestled under the covers, shifted to get out of the cold draft of the air conditioning and find a warm place. He moved with her and whispered in her ear, "Get into your spot."
She turned over on her stomach, arm under the pillow, knee bent up. He moved to fit along side her like a square peg in a square hole. His arm under her pillow, lacing his fingers with hers. His head nestled beside the back of her neck.
"I hate that I'm in love with you," she murmured as she exhaled.
"What?" he breathed into her hair.
"I said I hate that I'm in love with you."
"Shhush. Go back to sleep," he said as if she simply craved pancakes.
She was Kissing A Fool. Or maybe he was.
She was Kissing A Fool. Or maybe he was.
No comments:
Post a Comment