It was all a blur, last night. Bits and pieces of the Wednesday that was come to him one by one as he bites into his hastily made peanut butter breakfast. He wasn't supposed to be there last night, 2 a.m., pants undone, hair unkempt, his pulse beating heavily against her dirty white marbled floor. He was half sweaty, half cold. His back was damp, so was everything else within the realm of his skin; he could remember feeling his entire upper body heaving in a gentle but overwhelming frenzy while she breathes on the sides of his neck, then down his chest, and up again, spelling his name across his torso one letter at a time. She was mad, he recalled, mad at something - mad at her professor for not accepting her late exam, mad at her best friend for throwing away her cigarettes again, mad at her missing eyeglasses, mad at him for coming over, mad at him for not letting her go. But she let him hold her, after he knocked on her door. She slammed the door to his face, but came back and opened it a good six seconds later - he knew because he always counted her reaction time to anything that involved her ending a sentence with "away." She buried her face onto his shirt, asking him if that's alcohol she smelled and whose tongue was he sticking down his throat just nineteen days after they broke up. He liked it that she counted. She pushed him out the hallway again, but not before making sure he wasn't going to leave by tossing her hair just the right way, and he didn't, he didn't leave. They talked, he knew they talked about something outside the two of them, but he couldn't really remember, not with the toxicity still lingering in his breath this morning. But he was sure they talked, and talked, and talked some more, until the words got tired, but their mouths didn't and sometime between her being unsure of taking advantage of his poor, drunken state and him assuring her he will never regret it, their hands found their way to buttons and hair and legs and light switches and oh God, it was all a haze to him now, but his shirt falling nicely on top of her dress was clear inside his head, among all the other things falling nicely on top of other things. Why he loved the sea of her pores, her uncertainty, the intensity of her fragility, he couldn't say. Why he could never completely pull away from her, why he always felt the warmth underneath her icy skin of indifference. He shouldn't be thinking of her anymore, not after he woke up, on the same floor, with the same chill running down his spine, but without her legs holding him down, without a note telling him goodbye. He tries to wash away the thought, with a swig of coffee and two aspirins, hoping for the headache to go away, but not the girl behind it. How he adored her, still, always, that one last image of her and her hair dangling, swinging, leaping off her chest with reckless abandon in the heat of friction, his hands holding her, pushing her away but always bringing her back.

--

It was all a blur, last night. Bits and pieces of the Wednesday that was come to him one by one as he bites into his hastily made peanut butter breakfast. He wasn't supposed to be there last night, 2 a.m., pants undone, hair unkempt, his pulse beating heavily against her dirty white marbled floor. He was half sweaty, half cold. His back was damp, so was everything else within the realm of his skin; he could remember feeling his entire upper body heaving in a gentle but overwhelming frenzy while she breathes on the sides of his neck, then down his chest, and up again, spelling his name across his torso one letter at a time. She was mad, he recalled, mad at something - mad at her professor for not accepting her late exam, mad at her best friend for throwing away her cigarettes again, mad at her missing eyeglasses, mad at him for coming over, mad at him for not letting her go. But she let him hold her, after he knocked on her door. She slammed the door to his face, but came back and opened it a good six seconds later - he knew because he always counted her reaction time to anything that involved her ending a sentence with "away." She buried her face onto his shirt, asking him if that's alcohol she smelled and whose tongue was he sticking down his throat just nineteen days after they broke up. He liked it that she counted. She pushed him out the hallway again, but not before making sure he wasn't going to leave by tossing her hair just the right way, and he didn't, he didn't leave. They talked, he knew they talked about something outside the two of them, but he couldn't really remember, not with the toxicity still lingering in his breath this morning. But he was sure they talked, and talked, and talked some more, until the words got tired, but their mouths didn't and sometime between her being unsure of taking advantage of his poor, drunken state and him assuring her he will never regret it, their hands found their way to buttons and hair and legs and light switches and oh God, it was all a haze to him now, but his shirt falling nicely on top of her dress was clear inside his head, among all the other things falling nicely on top of other things. Why he loved the sea of her pores, her uncertainty, the intensity of her fragility, he couldn't say. Why he could never completely pull away from her, why he always felt the warmth underneath her icy skin of indifference. He shouldn't be thinking of her anymore, not after he woke up, on the same floor, with the same chill running down his spine, but without her legs holding him down, without a note telling him goodbye. He tries to wash away the thought, with a swig of coffee and two aspirins, hoping for the headache to go away, but not the girl behind it. How he adored her, still, always, that one last image of her and her hair dangling, swinging, leaping off her chest with reckless abandon in the heat of friction, his hands holding her, pushing her away but always bringing her back.

--