She is in your bed. She is wearing your white sheet — it’s wrapped tightly around her chest — and across it are her bare arms. You know she is naked underneath it. So are you. Smoking a cigarette by your open window. She is cold, but says nothing. The bottom of the sheet lifts a little from the wind where it dangles off the bed. You don’t look at the expanse of leg she displays. The moon is full and high and it makes you sick with longing for something that is gone, but you cannot name. You wonder how that could be. That you could’ve had it once — you must have had it — but still, not know it — only know the absence of it. And she slides towards you like some sort of daydream you used to keep yourself warm when you were younger, and sex was still a mystery, and women were frightening in a way that you never talked about. The sheet drops lower and lower, and you watch her, arms and legs, breasts, ass — you watch her laugh — and rise — and kiss you. Her lips are sweet and warm and easy, and you know that the red numbers of your alarm clock are not as red as her heart, not in that moment, when she is kissing you. And you think, it’s not fair. It’s not fair. In the back of your mind, you think — no, you wish — in the back of your mind you wish love was a promise you had kept, because she is the kind of woman who always keeps her promises, and she does not need the moon or cigarettes or you. She does not feel sick. She is lost in this. And you were found, once, a long time ago, alone, unsure of how you got home or why you left.