“You’re beautiful,” Alex tells me.
I’m wearing an oversized t-shirt and underwear – my hair is up – I have pimple cream applied to my face. It’s dried on. Flaky. White. It falls like snow from my forehead and onto my nose when I scratch at it. I wonder what he wants.
“Yeah?” I ask. “Is this what you like?”
He laughs from the bed. I turn around to look into the mirror and laugh too. I know he means it, and he doesn’t, and he is such a piece of shit sometimes. I wonder who came up with him. This man, in my bed, who has been in my bed – our bed – for years. Actual years.
I think about time.
“Come here,” he demands, throwing down the comforter on my end. “Let’s watch something before we go to sleep.”
I crawl in next to him – under his arm – head on his chest. The move is practiced and graceful. I have done it a million times. He is warm, and solid, and close. Alex has always smelled the same, no matter what soap or deodorant he uses.
Alex always smells like Alex.
Alex is home.
“I love you,” I tell him. I press a kiss against his skin and he says it back.
I wonder about love.


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