Just to spite him, I whipped my clothes off and left them in a puddle on the floor. “And do it slowly, so I forget my troubles.” He kept his eyes right on my bra as I swooped my hands behind to unhook it. “Take off your clothes,” a boy said to me once, leaning back like a king against his couch. So many boys had watched me dress and undress in this way. I’d listen to you undress, the soft thud of your jeans and belt. I’d put on my glasses and stumble out to the door where you’d be standing, snow dusting your shoulders and your boots, and you’d smile at my crumpled sleepy face and kiss me, follow me back to the mess of my bed. I would be half-asleep when you called me, confused as to the time, a little misty around the edges. It made me feel like the important part of your day. You used to come over late at night sometimes–it wasn’t in the sneaky, be-quiet manner of hookups but rather you’d been busy, shuffling papers and rearranging hangers in the way you did, but wanted to end your night next to my warm, sleeping form.
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