The rest of the room contradicts the antique bed. Contemporary. Clean lines. Shades of grey and sky blue, like winter sky meeting storm clouds.
I love it.
We climb under the covers, and he turns on the TV mounted on the opposite wall.Seinfeldreruns flicker to life.
I laugh at George's ridiculous rant. So familiar. So silly.
Julian laughs too, our bodies shaking together.
"Daniel hates this show," I say without thinking.
"Yeah?"
“He says it’s stupid."
Julian glances at me. "That's because he has no sense of humor."
"True."
He pulls me closer, and I smile. I'm glad we share the same sense of humor.
I settle against him, his arm around my shoulders. This feels easy. Natural.
Like we’ve been doing it forever.
I wake to sunlight streaming through slate-blue curtains and the smell of eggs.
Julian stands at the stove in his small kitchen, spatula in hand. Two plates wait on the counter, along with two glasses of orange juice.
"Morning."
He turns, smiles. "Hey. Sleep okay?"
"Better than I have in weeks."
Truth.
We eat at his little table, knees touching underneath. He makes perfect scrambled eggs—fluffy, with just enough butter.
When it's time to leave, I don't want to.
But I kiss him goodbye at the door, promise to text.
Outside, the October air bites through his Ramones shirt. I'm still wearing his clothes, my wet things stuffed in a plastic bag.
I walk toward my car, parked on the street, key fob jangling in my pocket.
Halfway there, the feeling hits.
Eyes on my back.
I stop. Turn.
Nothing.
Empty sidewalk. Parked cars. A tabby cat sunning itself on a stoop.
I scan windows. Alleyways.
