Hot, Sweaty and 8 Inches

It is late morning, and I lie awake in darkness--effortlessly draped in soft folds of down and cotton, not quite enveloped yet not quite exposed. A steamy flush of perspiring dew glistens down the length of one calf, thirsty for a touch from the fan’s breezy fingertips.  My leg curls over blanket, my hair waves over pillow, my hand slips over his.  The morning performs its magic as my eyes slowly blink away sleep’s souvenir, heart accelerating as the blurry silhouette of his eyelashes, lips, shoulders and chest become sharper in my eyes.  Soft hints of Bluegrass and baked goods waft through the weathered window’s slight crack, while sunlight’s golden compass traces geometric artistry down my lover’s arm. 

I draw the shades tighter, protecting him from sunlight’s thievery of sleep, and tiptoe out of bed across the summer-swollen wood floor.  Loosely sweeping my hair in a knot, I splash icy water on my face, and climb out onto the fire escape, desperate for a gust of air, a bit of cool and a moment of peace in the July heat.  Spotting a lone cigarette, I light it as a companion, carefully ashing into the tiny windowsill gutter that is sized perfectly for my bad habits.  As I observe Subway-riders, 9-to-5ers, coffee-sippers and paper-readers indulging in their morning routine, my head spins as though I hear their every thought.  “I hope my metro card has enough money to get to Layfayette.” “Is last night’s orgy and vodka binge a reason to be laid off?” “I need three espressos every morning, it’s in my blood.” “Did you read the article in Glamour about Michael Jackson shape-shifting into Bubbles the monkey?” and so on, and so forth.  Stress, sarcasm, self-doubt, secrets—the weight of everyone else’s world tearing at my heart and clawing at my back.  I shudder, close the window, and shut off my mind to the problems of those around me.

With that, I climbed back into bed, hoping he had missed the warmth of my presence or the comfort of my thoughts. Successfully, he stirred, and I knew he was hungry for more.

“I’m gonna do bad things to you…” he throatily murmurs, drawing me closer and sinking his teeth into my neck for a very personal version of the mid-week Bloody Mary…

Intimate hallucinations of waking up with 173 year old Bill Compton.  This is what happens when your window is 8-inches too big for a standard AC unit, you own an $8 fan from Duane Reade, and your 5th Floor Manhattan walkup apartment has a summer temperature that rivals Bon Temps.  Bite Me. -EB