So logically, I stopped counting sea lions… and started naming them.
Stanley. Harold. Cleopatra.
BEEP.
When that didn’t work, I gave them backstories. Larry the sea lion is a failed stand-up comic who tells the same three jokes about seagulls. Nobody ever laughs.
BEEP. BEEP.
Larry’s mom and dad want to support him, but they’re really going through it right now. Between Dad’s back surgery and the second mortgage on their house—
BEEP.
My brain finally said ‘fuck it’ because nothing could compete with my sleep partner mumbling about donor stats while she conducted a full TSA pat-down on my dick.
Did I want to roll over?
Hell yes.
Did I want to press her body against mine and skip straight to the good part?
Very fucking much.I wanted to slide my hand between her legs and see what kind of yummy sounds she makes.
But did I?
Fuck no.Because I’m a “gentleman.” And now I’m paying the price, having a frozen popsicle for a dick.
“Un-fucking-acceptable,” I inform the duvet mountain.
Hold up, Einstein.She’s the reason you’re one toe away from hypothermia.I’m reclaiming the blankets. She can freeze her tits off for the last fifty-eight minutes.
I yank the fabric’s edge, hard.
The entire stack of pillows avalanches onto me as I roll off the side.
“Son of—”
THUD.
I lie there, buried in overpriced fabric, staring at the ceiling and wondering how it happened.
I fling the duvet off my face.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
Wait. Why am I apologizing?She should be saying sorry. I had to peel her off me like a fruity scratch-n-sniff sticker all night.
I sit up, ready to give her a piece of my mind.
She’s gone.
No blanket thief. No apple scent.
Whenthehelldidsheget out of bed?
My eyes dart around the room. Bathroom empty. Suitcase still there. But her iPad and shoes? Poof.
Well, shit.
