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JoMazelis
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so that she could snuggle
under. He would be in his
cocoon of a sleeping bag,
the mattress beside him,
pink and bare, slippery,
cold and unyielding.
In the morning she would
make up his bed properly,
take away that sleeping
bag, put it in the wash or
at least turn it inside out
and put it on the line to air
in the spring sunshine.
She might also confess her
lies.
She took a few steps closer
to his room, wanting to
sense his nearness, to hear
his breathing. Then smiling
to herself, she returned to
her room, undressed, got
properly into bed and in
seconds she was asleep.
She was awoken by a door
banging downstairs and
ran to the window in time
to see Lawrence jogging
down the path towards
the gates. She could just
make out the thin white
wires of an MP3 player
trailing from the pocket of
his sweatshirt.
She took a long shower,
shaving her legs, then
applying body lotion. She
had neglected herself for
too long. She put on a
dress she’d found in one
of the wardrobes. It was
worn soft with age and
there was a tear beneath
one of the arms, but it
was a pretty print and a
flattering style.
She made up the bed in
the master bedroom and
hung his sleeping bag on
the line to air. She was in
the kitchen waiting for
the kettle to boil, when a
sudden breeze fluttered at
her bare legs, preceding
the slammed front door.