She lightly brushed against the bedside table as she exalted herself from the bed, post-coitus, post-cuddle, post-caring. He still lied there with his matted, sweat-soaked hair resting uncomfortably against the cold, misshapen pillow, and he was rubbing his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the lamp beside him. It burned hot near his still heaving body. The ceiling fan swung above him around and around like a hypnotist’s watch and he allowed his mind to wander, free from the confines of carnal desires.
It seemed in those moments that he was able to truly think. It was one of the few times. He asked her if it was alright for him to smoke a cigarette inside, and she nonchalantly obliged, tossing him one of her own American Spirit light cigarettes. He fumbled around the table next to him for a lighter and gently lit the ember, the flame quivering in his hand underneath the fan’s rustling winds. He took deep drags off of it, ashing off the side of the bed into a cup of water he’d probably be better off drinking if he wanted to avoid a hangover in the next few hours. Continue reading