Sometime in the early hours, she rolls against me. I’m struggling for the adjective feline, but all I can remember is cat. The hot wet cat, hungry and soiled from our fucking, licking my neck, rutting against the ball of my back. Half drunk still, in that convenient murk of exhaustion and denial, I laugh out loud. She stops, and reaches around my legs, under my open waistband; and all I’m thinking is fuck I’m still wearing my pants, how decadent.

She peels them down from behind, me shifting my weight to help, not actively doing anything. Not technically doing anything wrong. Perhaps not resisting, as with soft squeezes and rough flicks of her long nails I remember were purple tonight as her fingers knotted behind his head when she kissed him and I shuffled awkwardly as is expected, she gets me hard. Its only natural that I turn over and..reciprocate, I think, and then I don’t think at all.

Sometime later, when were sweaty and spooning awkwardly, and the room’s starting to get cold, but the sheets are in a bundle at the bottom of the bed and retrieving them means waking up; and her hair’s in my mouth where I can taste her, actually sweet, actually delicious, and my fingers are tracing the soft down on the curve of her belly, because again I’m half asleep and thinking of how poachers used to charm trout, tickling them under the water till they could pick them out into the hot dry air, barehanded; sometime then she gets a text and pay attention, this sort of shit is why I think girls are crazy; she slides out from under the soft tug of the weight of my arm, sits up at the edge of the bed, and answers him.

I watch her, illuminated in the pale blue light, bolt upright, back arching down to neat round ass; long hair tangled as I’ve never seen it, arms shifting as she replies, revealing ellipses of blue upward curving breasts, and she’s trashy pretty beautiful, and it’ all I need to fall asleep.