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I pick up my wineglass and take another gulp, swallowing it without even really tasting it and then taking another gulp for good measure.
I have more to write, I know I do, but the hum of what happened at the end of the night taunts me ruthlessly and puts a restlessness in my legs I can hardly sit through.
I have more to get done, I know it. But I don’t know if I can take any more tonight. I need to go to bed.
Decision made, I scroll through the menu to save my progress and exit the window quickly, shoving back my chair, picking up my mostly empty glass and taking it to the kitchen to wash it out.
Soft eighties music still plays from the stereo, and I decide to leave it thrumming in the background. I like a little music as I fall asleep most nights, and truthfully, I don’t know that I have the patience to stop and change it to anything else anyway.
I move to the bedroom, into the bathroom to brush my hair and teeth, and then shut the lights and climb into bed.
My sheets are cold, a shocking but welcome feeling against my heated skin as I slink down and take a deep breath.
My head spins as I replay the moment Jake ended our final dance a million times in my mind. The way his body leaned into mine. The feel of his fingertips as they sank into my hip. The smell of his cologne as it enveloped me.
All potent, powerful sense memories I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to forget without doing a full-on reprogramming of my brain. He is the single most openly affectionate man I’ve ever been around. And yet, it doesn’t seem disingenuous. In fact, it always but always feels truly heartfelt.
But all the rest of it aside, the piece of tonight my whole being cannot seem to let go of is the minute, acute, almost indistinguishable touch of our lips.
It was so small—so minor a moment—and yet, it sits atop a podium in my mind, awaiting its golden medal. How can such a fleeting touch feel like it was backed by the weight of the world? How can the whisper of his lips, a glancing blow to the very corner of my own, feel so colossal?
It doesn’t make sense. It’s almost antiscientific.
And yet, here I am, obsessing over it with the vigilance of a woman never touched.
I mean, I’ve had actual penises inside me before. Tongues in my mouth, fingers on my clit—I’ve had some serious person-to-person contact.
And yet, the most lasting memory of all of it—of all of the touches in the world—has come down to Jake Brent’s lips as they grazed the sensitive corner of my own.
That’s some Twilight Zone bullshit, for real.
Obviously, something has short-circuited in my brain. The wires for momentous and mere blip have crossed, and the consequences are real. No doubt, I’ll have to keep an eye on this. Next thing you know, I’ll be thinking that committing a traffic violation is the end of the world and murdering someone is a tiny slipup.
I mean, am I even going to be able to trust myself anymore?
I sink down in my bed and pull the covers over my head to block out the light of the moon. Even its gentle glow is too stark on a night like this. I need inky blackness. I need isolation. I need the kind of solace only a hard sleep can provide.
Knowing the nature of my mind, I groan and peek back out of my covers long enough to reach over to my nightstand. I yank open the drawer and grab the bottle of Advil PM. Two pills tumble into my hand as I shake the bottle, and it may not be the smartest thing in the world, but with the way I’m feeling, I keep shaking until I reveal a third.
Quickly, I toss them to the back of my tongue and grab the bottle of water I keep on the nightstand to swallow them down.
It’s for the best. Really. I need to sleep without vivid dreams of Jake Brent running me ragged. I need my mind to reset without frying, and a nice bout of unconsciousness seems like the only real way to do that.
Bottle of water repositioned atop my bedside table, I scoot back down under the covers and, once again, block out the light.
A small hum sounds from the streetlight outside my house, but I know it’ll be nothing but a sound machine for my sleep soon. I sigh heavily, slinking my body down into the mattress more and forcing my shoulders down and away from my chin.
The tension I’m carrying within my muscles makes them feel spring-loaded.
In fact, I’m fairly confident I could launch the space shuttle if someone set it atop one of them and told me to let her rip.
