The Morning After
328 Words
The sun crept in shyly through the sheer curtains, brushing its golden fingers along the bare skin of two lovers entangled on the floor. No laughter. No words. Just breath and warmth. Her head rested in the crook of his shoulder, his fingers absentmindedly combing through her hair. Her eyes were open. His were closed.
Neither wanted to speak.
Because what could words possibly add to a night like that? Words would reduce it. Words would cheapen it. It was too holy. Too tender. Too dangerous.
The fire from the hearth had long gone out, but their bodies were still warm, still pressed together like they feared the cold truth might seep in if they moved.
Eventually, Julian stood. Gently. Carefully. He pulled the throw blanket off the couch and covered her, placing a kiss on her temple so soft she wondered if she dreamed it.
Then he left.
No explanation. No excuse.
The door clicked shut.
And still—no words.
Isadora stayed there, naked beneath the throw, the scent of him clinging to her thighs, the ache of pleasure still blooming in her hips. Her eyes scanned the ceiling. Blank. Like her mind.
She didn’t know if she felt elated… or ashamed. Alive… or foolish. She only knew she was changed.
The silence stretched.
Until the door creaked again.
She didn’t turn. Didn’t speak.
She felt him come closer, heard the quiet hush of careful footsteps. She smiled softly, still not looking.
“I was wondering if you’d come back,” she murmured.
But the voice that answered wasn’t Julian’s.
“Maman?”
Her whole body turned to stone.
She sat up too fast. The blanket fell. Her son stood in the entryway to the living room, eyes wide with confusion, his mouth slightly open, keys still dangling in one hand.
He said nothing.
Neither did she.
He looked at the discarded clothes. The glass of water. The slight redness at her collarbone. Her tousled hair.
- Writer
