razorshimmy

So, it starts this way:
She's naked, sitting up in bed beside me when I wake up, feeling the blanket of morning light washing through onto me, over the covers and half of my face. She's sweating, too.
"I can't." She says. "I'm afraid."
I dig a little crust out of my eye. "Laurel? Are you still asleep?"
"Am I still asleep?" She says, and lays down again, next to me, flopping sweat and cool air across the side of my face that's still in the dark. Her eyes are open, but I can tell she's still sleeping.
"This might have been a bad idea, John." She says.
"Who's John?" I ask, before I realize how stupid a question that is."
"I can't." She says, and closes her eyes.
I should have ask her more, or less, before I brought her home last night.

The last I see of her comes when the springs creak and the weight on the bed shifts and I hear feet press into the floor, the static noise of her body displacing the air in front of the bed as she stands.
I pretend to still be asleep as she walks, thin and awkward, away from the bed, pale back and tight, blooming little ass shifting slightly as she makes her way and then bends to the clothes on the floor, pulling her shirt on over her head, then stepping, without underwear, into her pants. She turns just enough that I see a hint of hair as the jeans slide over her crotch.
I never see her put her shoes on. I'm too busy fading in and out of sleep. I hear the door shut, and that's the last thing I remember, that little pubic sprout nestling itself into her jeans, as I let myself wonder when I'll see her again, and know, further back in the dark little cave in my head, that I won't.