He was drunk and I was morbidly aware of how my body looked in the lamp-light, far from perfection. The look on his face told me that I’d do, whatever that meant. It caught me off guard, as we had met up for drinks and I’d worn my mid-sexy range of undergarments with the assumption I’d go home alone again. We drank and drank, ingesting every drop of gin behind the bar until closing time and I didn’t realize I’d be giving him a fashion show underneath the alarm clock’s gaze. I had to work in the morning, but I didn’t care. Eight months spent in sexual solitary and I didn’t really have room to complain. He wasn’t beautiful by any means, but made me feel as if I deserved the title and that was good enough. Sometimes the touch is all you need to reaffirm, even without the sobriety.

His smile was imperfect, but his words were an aphrodisiac unto themselves, lent from silver tongue that worked its magic until my mind screamed for sleep. I tried to fight the desire to stay awake and found myself captive beneath the fingerprints left on every inch of skin as we swam through silken sheets and sunbeams worming their way through cracks in my curtains. I jumped in the shower, faintly smelling the gin and tobacco in the saliva he left along my neckline and not quite wanting to rid myself of the memories left therein.

I had sobered up a bit underneath the suds and steam, feeling better than when I had put warm foot to cold tile floor ten minutes previous. He laid there in my bed, unconscious and wrapped up in my sheets like a ten year old with no desire to go to school. His foot twitched in mid-dream and I left the room to start the coffee, leaving my robe half-open in an act of defiance against the body I’d been given.

Twenty minutes and a half-cup of java later, I heard him snore from the other room. I smiled, against my better judgment and sipped my coffee during the nasal symphony. He wasn’t perfect, but he’d do for now.

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