The Warmth That Lingers

He reduces my entire universe to warm sheets and sweaty limbs.

Every cell of my body is humming pleasantly and I just want to hang onto this single moment forever.

He is all pale flesh and crimson hair and scorching breath, and when he kisses my neck I am sure that I see flames of every color lapping at my skin; my tattoos come to life in the darkness between our bodies.

At this point, I am not at all shocked that I’m this drunk; I am, in fact, numb to it. I lost track after the third long island iced tea that he bought for me. And when he carried me up the four torturous flights to my apartment, I did not – could not – protest.

I bury my face in his damp shoulder and inhale lungfuls of smoke and cologne and whiskey.

But all too soon, it’s over. He is pulling his warmth away and a cold blast of air from the window drenches me in ice – it’s almost enough to sober me up. Almost.

“It was fun, Tatiana – but I’m gonna go,” he says, and I’m shocked that he remembers my name – I can’t recall his and that consumes me much, much more than the cold ever will.

I reach out my hand to him – a moan dies in my throat as he passes through the dark doorway. I can’t move; I am frozen. I am falling into a void I never knew existed below me. Blackness consumes every last shimmering star – one by one, they all vanish as pain lances through the pleasure.

I hear his car roar to life underneath the window and drive off. Then, silence. I’m left alone, shivering – from him, from that, from everything.

And I cling to the embers of his warmth – the warmth that lingers in my sheets.