The wine makes her dream
She lay on her stomach in the dark, her breasts pushing into his mattress, staring sideways at him. He sat, legs crossed with his back straight against the wall. Looking at the dimples in the white popcorn ceiling, he taps on the side of his water glass steadily. Anything is better than total silence.
She looks away. He slouches and takes his eyes off the ceiling to regard her. This is not the first time she had come here. It was a ritual—slipping away from her own world after too much wine. No one knew she was here and she preferred it this way.
“You can stay here any time you want, you know.”
She turns her head toward him, her hair skirting across her shoulderblades, and he allows this eye contact.
“I know,” she says and looks away again, feeling that he can see the embarrasment on her face. “I’m sorry.”
“For what? For burying your head into a wall for an hour?”
“No. For keeping you up.”
He raises an eyebrow and makes a face.
“Well I wasn’t going to just leave you out there.”
She closes her eyes and looks at the ceiling, as if the answers are all inscribed in the cheap plaster blisters. He sighs. He already knew they were not.
Briefly, she remembers holding his hand, but the thought seems out of context. She knows next to nothing about him, and now he knows everything about her. Exposed and damaged, she hangs her head. The last thing she wants is for him to pity her, and she fears he will.
Not wanting to dig herself even deeper into her little shame hole, she says nothing.
“Just, if there is anything I can do to help, I’ll try.”
She looks up at him and tries a slight smile. More than anything, she wishes he could.
