She wakes up, unsure of where she is, feeling like she’s in a place she shouldn’t be. Her eyes are still closed. She tries to remember going to bed, and then hears the familiar breathing next to her. She opens her eyes and sees the red digits of the clock radio on the nightstand staring back at her. It's 3:07 am. He lies next to her, his back to hers, not touching, and she can’t help but feel it’s an appropriate position for them to be in. It’s time for her to berate herself, wondering what the hell she's doing here – again.
She knows last night was supposed to be a good-bye. Yet, she’s here again in his bed. Damn it! He continues to breathe quietly, inhale ... exhale ... inhale ... exhale. Inhale: she remembers their first meeting at the gym by the water fountain. Exhale: she remembers their first breakup over something petty that she can't even recall now. Inhale: she remembers their first kiss in the elevator of her apartment building. Exhale: she remembers their last fight about his vehement insistence that she shouldn't buy a red car because red cars stand out and are more likely to get ticketed. With anger building up at him she thinks of elbowing him in the head; then the anger quickly fades as she realizes the idiocy of the thought. Especially since she doesn’t want him to know she’s awake.
She does not want to get out of bed. All she wants to do is sleep. She looks at the clock again: 3:09 am. Her left leg shifts and she feels the wetness of the sheets beneath her thigh and she’s relieved that she hasn’t stopped taking the pill. But then all the warnings of the possible side effects come to mind. Blood clots: she notices a slight tingling in her leg. Stroke: her head does hurt a little. Increased risk of breast cancer: she reflexively brings her hand up to a breast, wondering if there are any lumps. And if there are, were they there before?
She tells herself to stop it, and quickly pulls her hand from her breast. She again notices the clamminess of the sheet against her thigh and wonders how she could be so tired, so disconnected from the world, that she doesn’t move her leg from the wet spot. She moves her leg and feels triumphant about taking control of the situation. She’s in command now. In command now? If she was in command of anything she knows she wouldn’t be here now. She’d be at home, in her own bed, still asleep, and not regretful. And her cat would be purring at her feet. The cat! He must be starving. And meowing non-stop. She hopes no one in a neighboring apartment hears the cat. They must think she’s a neglectful pet owner and an awful person. That’s a reason to get up; the cat is depending on her. But she doesn’t want to get up, the bed is too comfortable. The cat can skip a meal. He’s overweight anyway. She needs more sleep.
But no! She needs to get out of here. End things for good. She could leave a note on the pillow saying good-bye for good, this is it, you’re too self-involved, and I always hated the furniture in your apartment, your taste in music and the stray hairs on your back, and ... and last night was great. No it wasn’t! Well, it was. Sort of. There is something intense about breakup sex. Intense enough that she’ll remember last night. But she has to forget about last night if she’s going to move on. But then, maybe things could work out. She can’t believe she thought that. Work out? How long do you keep on trying? It’s unhealthy for both of us. Yet it’s great sometimes. Stop it! Why did God make us to forget the miserable times and remember the good times and why did he make breakup sex so good.
She decides that she’ll force herself out of bed no later than 3:15 am. She’ll get up quietly, put her clothes back on, and slip out the door. She could be back home, asleep in her own bed by 3:45 am. And she’ll leave his key here. Right on the dining room table. With no note. He’ll know it’s over for good. Or maybe she'll leave a note saying, “It’s over for good!” She likes the subtlety of no note, but he always said he liked the subtlety in her comments. And since she needs to avoid doing what he likes, she won't be subtle. She’ll definitely have to leave a note.
But then she thinks about everything of hers here. She has some clothes in the closet, a couple of CDs and books, and things she knows are hers but can’t remember right now. She can’t dig them up tonight. She’ll have to come back later. But then she couldn’t leave the message of leaving the key. Damn it! She’ll have to keep the key for now and come back later, and then leave the key. She knows he’ll be at work all day, so she should be able to return when he's gone and get all her things. But she wants him to wake up with her gone and she wants to feel the pleasure of sliding his key from her key ring. She'll have to be sure she doesn't accidentally leave the key to her parent's house which looks exactly the same as his key except for the bump in the middle. Then she realizes she doesn’t have to leave his key. She can leave her parents' key and he'd think it was his key. She can always get another key from her parents. Then she’ll come back during the day, take her stuff, and then leave his key.
She’s happy. She knows what’s she’s going to do. She’s committed. And she falls asleep briefly, then wakes up. She sees the clock showing 3:14 am in its red digits, red just like her new Honda Civic. Red, because it's her favorite color. Red, because he didn't want her to buy a red car. Red, because it stands out ... Damn it! He's probably right about red cars more likely to get tickets. But if she gets a speeding ticket, he'll tell her, "I told you so," and she'd just have another good reason to leave him.
Fuck! What is she doing here? She should just get up and leave. Now. Definitely, now. If she wasn't so tired. If she didn't need the sleep. She can leave him anytime, it doesn’t have to be right now, so dramatic. Tomorrow she’s sure she'll remember everything that she thought tonight. But maybe not. These thoughts at 3 am could disappear forever and she’ll have another night like this again. And at 3 am on that future night she'll think the same thoughts, then forget them once more. Has she gone though this before? If one doesn't remember, is it the same thing as it never happened?
And now she has to pee, which is uncomfortable, but she's glad it distracts her from further ponderings on the existential nature of memory. But she doesn't want to get up to pee, because she knows she'll have trouble getting back to sleep after returning from the bathroom. And all she wants to do is sleep. She knows she can hold it in; she doesn't really have to pee right now. She'll be fine until morning. But the pressure is building up in her bladder, but then she thinks she's just imagining that. She really doesn't have to pee that badly. She can hold it until morning. And she realizes that if she doesn't submit to her urge, she'll be laying awake the rest of the night pondering if she can wait to pee. She gently slides out of bed, being careful not to wake him. He doesn't move.
She walks across the dark bedroom to the bathroom, nearly tripping over a shoe on the floor. She silently closes the bathroom door. She doesn't turn the light on. It will only make it harder to go back to sleep. And without the light she can avoid seeing her naked body in the mirror. But she knows she should accept her body just the way it is. So she reaches for the light switch to prove her acceptance of her body. But she hesitates. She can look at her body anytime. The light will wake her further, and she doesn't want that. But maybe she's saying that just to refrain from seeing her reflection. So she decides to turn on the light. But she knows she really needs to get back to sleep. She takes her hand off the switch and promises to herself she'll look at her naked body in the mirror when she returns to her apartment.
By feel she makes her way to the toilet, trying to remember if she was the last one to use it so she'll be sure that the seat is down. She knows she was the last one to use it before she went to sleep. But maybe he used the toilet when she was sleeping. And that fucker never puts the seat down. But she supposes that it is his apartment and he can leave the seat up if he wants, even if it makes him a bad host. She'll have to add "bad host" to the list of reasons why she shouldn't be with him anymore.
The seat is down. She sits and relieves herself. She creeps back to the bed and slowly slides in under the sheets. Then he moves, and she freezes. He throws the sheets off and pulls himself out of bed. Through the open bathroom door she can see his silhouette as he turns on the bathroom light. She closes her eyes tight to avoid the brightness. Why does he always turn on the light? Can't he sit down in the dark so he wouldn't have to aim?
Through her shut eyelids she sees the light turned off. He gets back in bed and shifts his body towards her ... and wraps his arm over her. He's trying to spoon. His penis lies against her thigh and she feels its wet tip brushing her skin. He whispers "I love," then a hesitation, then "you." What was that hesitation? Did he start to say "I love you" out of force of habit, but caught himself, then realized he had to finish or otherwise he'd come across as insensitive jerk? Or did he still really mean it? Or does he still really mean it but because they're supposedly broken up, he knows he's not supposed to say it anymore, but he couldn't stop once he started because he really is an insensitive jerk.
Before she can stop herself, she reflexively says, "I love you, too." God damn it! Why did that come out? Why didn't she at least say it with the same hesitation so at least he'd also be left wondering what exactly the hesitation meant. She tries again: "I love you," she hesitates a bit, then as she says "too" she realizes that she hesitated before the "too" not the "you," and she's not even sure how that could be interpreted. She wants to try again to say it, this time with the proper hesitation, but she can't try again because she'd just feel stupid doing so.
He reacts by lifting the arm wrapped around her and scratches his head. Is that really an itch, or is it just an excuse to take his arm off her body and pretend he never said "I love you"? He turns to his other side, his back to hers, not touching.
The clock show 3:19. She closes her eyes and tries to let sleep come to her. To stop thinking about the effort of getting to sleep. To just clear her mind. To not worry about a thing. To relax and blank out into slumber. To ... and then he starts snoring. Lightly, but it's enough to disrupt her newly reached calmness. She's annoyed at him, herself, and ... there must be something else she's annoyed at. It'll come to her in the morning.
She falls asleep.
She knows last night was supposed to be a good-bye. Yet, she’s here again in his bed. Damn it! He continues to breathe quietly, inhale ... exhale ... inhale ... exhale. Inhale: she remembers their first meeting at the gym by the water fountain. Exhale: she remembers their first breakup over something petty that she can't even recall now. Inhale: she remembers their first kiss in the elevator of her apartment building. Exhale: she remembers their last fight about his vehement insistence that she shouldn't buy a red car because red cars stand out and are more likely to get ticketed. With anger building up at him she thinks of elbowing him in the head; then the anger quickly fades as she realizes the idiocy of the thought. Especially since she doesn’t want him to know she’s awake.
She does not want to get out of bed. All she wants to do is sleep. She looks at the clock again: 3:09 am. Her left leg shifts and she feels the wetness of the sheets beneath her thigh and she’s relieved that she hasn’t stopped taking the pill. But then all the warnings of the possible side effects come to mind. Blood clots: she notices a slight tingling in her leg. Stroke: her head does hurt a little. Increased risk of breast cancer: she reflexively brings her hand up to a breast, wondering if there are any lumps. And if there are, were they there before?
She tells herself to stop it, and quickly pulls her hand from her breast. She again notices the clamminess of the sheet against her thigh and wonders how she could be so tired, so disconnected from the world, that she doesn’t move her leg from the wet spot. She moves her leg and feels triumphant about taking control of the situation. She’s in command now. In command now? If she was in command of anything she knows she wouldn’t be here now. She’d be at home, in her own bed, still asleep, and not regretful. And her cat would be purring at her feet. The cat! He must be starving. And meowing non-stop. She hopes no one in a neighboring apartment hears the cat. They must think she’s a neglectful pet owner and an awful person. That’s a reason to get up; the cat is depending on her. But she doesn’t want to get up, the bed is too comfortable. The cat can skip a meal. He’s overweight anyway. She needs more sleep.
But no! She needs to get out of here. End things for good. She could leave a note on the pillow saying good-bye for good, this is it, you’re too self-involved, and I always hated the furniture in your apartment, your taste in music and the stray hairs on your back, and ... and last night was great. No it wasn’t! Well, it was. Sort of. There is something intense about breakup sex. Intense enough that she’ll remember last night. But she has to forget about last night if she’s going to move on. But then, maybe things could work out. She can’t believe she thought that. Work out? How long do you keep on trying? It’s unhealthy for both of us. Yet it’s great sometimes. Stop it! Why did God make us to forget the miserable times and remember the good times and why did he make breakup sex so good.
She decides that she’ll force herself out of bed no later than 3:15 am. She’ll get up quietly, put her clothes back on, and slip out the door. She could be back home, asleep in her own bed by 3:45 am. And she’ll leave his key here. Right on the dining room table. With no note. He’ll know it’s over for good. Or maybe she'll leave a note saying, “It’s over for good!” She likes the subtlety of no note, but he always said he liked the subtlety in her comments. And since she needs to avoid doing what he likes, she won't be subtle. She’ll definitely have to leave a note.
But then she thinks about everything of hers here. She has some clothes in the closet, a couple of CDs and books, and things she knows are hers but can’t remember right now. She can’t dig them up tonight. She’ll have to come back later. But then she couldn’t leave the message of leaving the key. Damn it! She’ll have to keep the key for now and come back later, and then leave the key. She knows he’ll be at work all day, so she should be able to return when he's gone and get all her things. But she wants him to wake up with her gone and she wants to feel the pleasure of sliding his key from her key ring. She'll have to be sure she doesn't accidentally leave the key to her parent's house which looks exactly the same as his key except for the bump in the middle. Then she realizes she doesn’t have to leave his key. She can leave her parents' key and he'd think it was his key. She can always get another key from her parents. Then she’ll come back during the day, take her stuff, and then leave his key.
She’s happy. She knows what’s she’s going to do. She’s committed. And she falls asleep briefly, then wakes up. She sees the clock showing 3:14 am in its red digits, red just like her new Honda Civic. Red, because it's her favorite color. Red, because he didn't want her to buy a red car. Red, because it stands out ... Damn it! He's probably right about red cars more likely to get tickets. But if she gets a speeding ticket, he'll tell her, "I told you so," and she'd just have another good reason to leave him.
Fuck! What is she doing here? She should just get up and leave. Now. Definitely, now. If she wasn't so tired. If she didn't need the sleep. She can leave him anytime, it doesn’t have to be right now, so dramatic. Tomorrow she’s sure she'll remember everything that she thought tonight. But maybe not. These thoughts at 3 am could disappear forever and she’ll have another night like this again. And at 3 am on that future night she'll think the same thoughts, then forget them once more. Has she gone though this before? If one doesn't remember, is it the same thing as it never happened?
And now she has to pee, which is uncomfortable, but she's glad it distracts her from further ponderings on the existential nature of memory. But she doesn't want to get up to pee, because she knows she'll have trouble getting back to sleep after returning from the bathroom. And all she wants to do is sleep. She knows she can hold it in; she doesn't really have to pee right now. She'll be fine until morning. But the pressure is building up in her bladder, but then she thinks she's just imagining that. She really doesn't have to pee that badly. She can hold it until morning. And she realizes that if she doesn't submit to her urge, she'll be laying awake the rest of the night pondering if she can wait to pee. She gently slides out of bed, being careful not to wake him. He doesn't move.
She walks across the dark bedroom to the bathroom, nearly tripping over a shoe on the floor. She silently closes the bathroom door. She doesn't turn the light on. It will only make it harder to go back to sleep. And without the light she can avoid seeing her naked body in the mirror. But she knows she should accept her body just the way it is. So she reaches for the light switch to prove her acceptance of her body. But she hesitates. She can look at her body anytime. The light will wake her further, and she doesn't want that. But maybe she's saying that just to refrain from seeing her reflection. So she decides to turn on the light. But she knows she really needs to get back to sleep. She takes her hand off the switch and promises to herself she'll look at her naked body in the mirror when she returns to her apartment.
By feel she makes her way to the toilet, trying to remember if she was the last one to use it so she'll be sure that the seat is down. She knows she was the last one to use it before she went to sleep. But maybe he used the toilet when she was sleeping. And that fucker never puts the seat down. But she supposes that it is his apartment and he can leave the seat up if he wants, even if it makes him a bad host. She'll have to add "bad host" to the list of reasons why she shouldn't be with him anymore.
The seat is down. She sits and relieves herself. She creeps back to the bed and slowly slides in under the sheets. Then he moves, and she freezes. He throws the sheets off and pulls himself out of bed. Through the open bathroom door she can see his silhouette as he turns on the bathroom light. She closes her eyes tight to avoid the brightness. Why does he always turn on the light? Can't he sit down in the dark so he wouldn't have to aim?
Through her shut eyelids she sees the light turned off. He gets back in bed and shifts his body towards her ... and wraps his arm over her. He's trying to spoon. His penis lies against her thigh and she feels its wet tip brushing her skin. He whispers "I love," then a hesitation, then "you." What was that hesitation? Did he start to say "I love you" out of force of habit, but caught himself, then realized he had to finish or otherwise he'd come across as insensitive jerk? Or did he still really mean it? Or does he still really mean it but because they're supposedly broken up, he knows he's not supposed to say it anymore, but he couldn't stop once he started because he really is an insensitive jerk.
Before she can stop herself, she reflexively says, "I love you, too." God damn it! Why did that come out? Why didn't she at least say it with the same hesitation so at least he'd also be left wondering what exactly the hesitation meant. She tries again: "I love you," she hesitates a bit, then as she says "too" she realizes that she hesitated before the "too" not the "you," and she's not even sure how that could be interpreted. She wants to try again to say it, this time with the proper hesitation, but she can't try again because she'd just feel stupid doing so.
He reacts by lifting the arm wrapped around her and scratches his head. Is that really an itch, or is it just an excuse to take his arm off her body and pretend he never said "I love you"? He turns to his other side, his back to hers, not touching.
The clock show 3:19. She closes her eyes and tries to let sleep come to her. To stop thinking about the effort of getting to sleep. To just clear her mind. To not worry about a thing. To relax and blank out into slumber. To ... and then he starts snoring. Lightly, but it's enough to disrupt her newly reached calmness. She's annoyed at him, herself, and ... there must be something else she's annoyed at. It'll come to her in the morning.
She falls asleep.
