I woke up in a warm embrace early the next morning. I open my eyes in relief and take in my surroundings. I’m in the giant bed in our massive bedroom. It’s still dark outside and the room is shrouded in shadow.
Paul is snoring softly above my head. The scruff under his chin and on his neck tickles my skin. I am starving, and I need to use the restroom. Bad.
I wiggled myself free from Paul’s arms, and tiptoed into our bathroom.
After emptying my bladder, I take in my appearance in the long mirror. I’m in the same clothes I wore to dinner last night. My jeggings are stretched and wrinkled in weird places and my cable-knit sweater looks lop-sided and disheveled. My face is bloated and smooth, probably from all the crying. My eyes sting slightly and the skin around them is pink.
I run a
