Except it does.
Because the later it gets, the more vivid my imagination becomes.
I can see him too clearly.
Jet-black hoodie.
Travel-tired.
Eyes dark and wrecked from wanting.
Knocking once before I drag him inside by the front of his shirt.
I imagine the door shutting.
His bag hitting the floor.
His mouth on mine before either of us says a word.
I imagine him finally not stopping.
I imagine all that control snapping at once, his hands in my hair, on my waist, dragging me up against him like a man who spent too many days holding back and has no interest in being civilized anymore.
I imagine him kissing me across the room, onto the bed, into the sheets I am suddenly very aware I changed with exactly that fantasy in mind.
My stomach flips.
My skin goes tight.
I look at the clock.
10:16.
Too late for me to be this awake.
Too early for me to give up.
I pace.
I sit.
I stand again.
I open my laptop and close it without reading a word.
I check the mirror twice and pretend I am just walking past it coincidentally.
At 10:41, there’s a knock at my door.
One sharp rap.
Then another.
Every single nerve ending in my body lights up at once.
I am halfway there before I remember I am supposed to be cool.
So I stop, inhale, smooth my hair for no reason, then open the door like my pulse is not trying to leap clean out of my throat.
