It’s almost four o clock and we haven’t moved from the couch. Aimee’s legs have been resting on my lap for so long, I’ve lost all feeling in my thighs. And my thumbs are aching from massaging her feet for a good hour. She’s felt like s**t for most of the day, and I’ve felt pretty good, so it’s the least I can do.
Every few minutes, when we’re not talking, when there’s not something interesting on screen, I can feel last night’s events worming their way into my thoughts. That thing in my bed felt so real. I know there’s a strong possibility that I was half-asleep, still drunk from the stag—but no nightmare, no trick of the eyes has ever felt so real.
“I’m getting a coffee,” Aimee says as she swings her legs onto the floor. “You want anything from the kitchen?”
“I’ll get it for you,” I of
