Phone face-up on the bedside. Mum. Live. Full chest-up shot of him and a bit of my hair. I dived under the duvet. He answered. I died. She now thinks I am “that girl from work.” I am.
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Full face because I came from work and refused to look mid. Woke up and his white pillow looked like a crime scene. He said nothing. I offered to buy a new one. He said don’t bother. I did.
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Sex happens. Then the emotional lights go out. No water, no hand, no stupid joke. Just a man who thinks the scene ended when he did.