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She shifts off me carefully. "I think you're trying to kill me."
"I think you're trying to kill me."
She smiles, proud and curious.
"Or was that so I fall back asleep?"
"Death. Sleep. Either way, it's quiet."
I love her sense of humor. "Want a drink?" I stand, take care of the condom, bring her a box of tissues for cleanup.
"Water," she says. "But I don't mind if you have something."
"Water is good." I'm not great with moderation these days. Not since Deidre died. I drink until I remember, then until I forget. The next day—
Not fun.
And, yeah, she's leaving tomorrow, but I still don't want to spend all morning nursing a hangover.
"Do you have a t-shirt I can wear?" she asks. "One that's actually yours?"
"Yeah, but I might take you again," I say.
"I can live with that."
I fill the glasses and bring them to the coffee table. Then I head up the stairs and find an old Inked Love t-shirt for her.
She changes into it right away. With only the panties this time.
She looks even sexier in the shirt bearing the name of the shop, but I'm out of juice at this point.
She takes a long sip, settles on the couch, scrolls through a list of classic films. She stops onThe Shop Around the Corner, decides against it, keeps scrolling. "You don't mind black and white?"
"You realize I'm an artist?"
"And I thought this would get me out of the color theory lecture," she says.
"Oh no. You can't escape."
"What about orange? What does that say?" she asks.
"Were you writing something?"
"Oh. Yeah. Just, uh… thoughts, I guess."
"Thoughts?"
"An essay for a project," she says.
"Already on your homework?"
"Always finishing my homework."
"Do you consider yourself a writer?"
"I guess," she says. "But it's not a career goal."
"Not everything has to be."
