I
He lifted his head from the pillow and turned over. Her naked back arched under the covers and he reached toward her with his lips. He didn’t want to wake her. He wanted to wake her. He wanted her, half awake like a child,, to roll over mumble something and nestle her face in his chest. But she didn’t move.
He slowly got up. Slipped on his underwear. Picked his jeans up off the floor, grabbed his wrinkled t-shirt and quietly eased the bedroom door open just enough so he could slip through. He checked the pockets of his jeans for his wallet and keys. They were there. Right leg, left leg he put his pants on and found his shoes at the door. He abandoned all hope of finding his socks. He hated wearing socks during sex. They were always the first things to come off.
Fumbling with the lock on the front door, he heard noises from the bedroom, like rustling leaves. He ignored it. He opened the door and squinted in the early morning daylight. As he heard her call his name from the bedroom, he stepped outside. All she heard was the door closing.
II
He walked quickly down the street, everyone seemed to know. He looked at his cell phone. No missed calls, no text messages, no emails. No one wanted to talk to him.
III
She stared at the empty imprint of his body. She put her hand on his pillow. Felt the lingering warmth. She lay on her back, eyes staring at the spotted ceiling. How do ceilings get dirty, she wondered and pulled the sheet up to her armpits.
She reached for her phone, it was next to her bed, next to the books she was reading. She always read more than one book at a time. It drove her mother crazy. That’s why she did it. She never finished a book. She liked protecting the mystery of the endings.
IV
He waited at the bus stop. It was chilly. Summer was bleeding into Fall, you felt it in the mornings now. His eyes darted around. He looked at his phone, for the time. It was 7:33am. He had to be at work by 8:00am. He worked at a coffee shop. It was Saturday. The bus was late.
V
She didn’t have anything to do today. It was 7:36am. She rolled onto her side, facing his side of the bed. She wished he was there for her to nestle her face into his chest. He didn’t have any hair on his chest. She thought that was strange for a grown man. He was three years older than her. She was 27. The sunlight leaked through her Venetian blinds. She reached for the book on her night table. He had made fun of it after they had sex last night.
“You’re reading this?” he said laughing.
“Yeah, I like that stuff makes me feel better about things, help me deal with stuff,” she grabbed the self help book, Understand Yourself Understand Others, from his hands. He thought he was much smarter than he actually was. She liked that about him.
“Whatever. I like stuff that makes me feel shitty. Then I can get back to my real life and appreciate that it’s not so bad,” he said.
VI
She opened to her bookmark and read with the morning light. She liked reading in the mornings.
