The first thing I noticed when I woke up was that Annie had stolen the sheet.
The second was that she had left me one corner, which suggested either generosity or poor technique.
The third was the fork beneath my pillow.
I pulled it out carefully.
Chocolate clung to one of the tines.
For several seconds, I lay there holding it above my face while the ceiling fan turned overhead.
There were mornings that began with dignity.
This was not one of them.
Beside me, Annie slept on her stomach with one arm tucked beneath the pillow and most of the sheet wrapped around her legs. Her hair covered half her face. One bare shoulder rose and fell with each quiet breath.
She looked different asleep.
Less careful.
There was no small line between her eyebrows. No awareness of the windows, the door, or the phone she had left facedown in the other room.
Just the woman who had alphabetized cheese, bought three pies, and apparently believed forks belonged in bedding.
I placed it on the nightstand.
Annie moved.
Her hand reached across the mattress, found my waist, and pulled me closer without opening her eyes.
That answered the sheet question.
Poor technique.
I smiled into the pillow.
This was dangerous.
Not the sleeping beside a beautiful woman part. That was mostly warm and inconvenient.
The dangerous part was how quickly the cottage already felt familiar.
Her leg over mine.
My shirt somewhere on the floor.
The sound of waves through the cracked window.
The fact that I knew she preferred the cooler side of the pillow and became strangely possessive of blankets after midnight.
I had known Annie for four days.
Four days was not enough time to develop habits around another person.
Apparently, my body had not received the memo.
Her phone buzzed in the other room.
