I dream about him. This is not surprising: since I’ve been living here, fantasizing about this guy has become something of a recurring thing, reminding me in a humiliating way how much a human being is governed by their instincts. But this dream is different from the others: it’s damn realistic! I feel his hand on my thigh, his breath on my neck, and his smell: the leather of his jacket, his after-shave, his favorite brand of cigarettes.
“Dring, dring,” whispers a warm voice to my ear.
A long thrill goes up along my spine.
“Dring?” I repeat, still half asleep.
A laugh, but it’s a soft and serious sound, very tender.
“I was imitating an alarm clock.”
I open an eye. Chris. Chris’s face, specifically.
“It’s not great. It sounded more like the ringing of a dying phone.”
The inflection
