“Oh, my God.”
11:18.
I slept until 11:18.
On a Saturday.
I cannot remember the last time I slept this late. College, maybe. After finals. Or that one flu sophomore year when I slept for sixteen hours and woke up briefly convinced I had died.
My body clearly had opinions.
Loud ones.
I fall back against the pillows with a groan, then wince because even that reminds me of him.
Everything reminds me of him.
The ache between my thighs.
The tender spot on my breast where his mouth had lingered too long.
The destroyed state of my bed.
The fact that I am naked beneath the sheet and cannot even pretend there is any dignity left to salvage.
I’m not sure I’d want to if there were.
I lift the sheet and look down at myself.
There are marks.
A bruise low on my hip where his fingers had gripped me. A faint scrape of beard burn on the inside of my thigh. A red mark on my breast. My nipples tighten at the sight, and I drop the sheet immediately.
“Nope.”
My voice is hoarse.
I sound like a woman who screamed Mario Conti’s name repeatedly last night.
I cover my face with both hands.
Then laugh.
I don’t sound particularly sane.
It grows until I am shaking with it, and I have to press the heels of my hands to my eyes to stop the sudden, stupid tears.
This is absurd.
This is ridiculous.
This is the most illogical, poorly planned, catastrophically stupid thing I have ever done.
And I feel…
I feel.
Great.
