I can’t even explain the way we are wrapped around each other. We are arms and legs impossibly tangled and even I, prone to claustrophobia when cuddling, think that if he were an inch closer, I wouldn’t mind that at all.
He’s talking above my head, the entire length of my body too short to match his own, and I am listening. Mostly. There is a part of me hanging back, becoming acquainted with the exact note on the scale where his voice registers, tracing absentminded circles across the skin of his bare back, dizzy and intoxicated from the mingling of his cologne and his skin and my perfume and the rain.