12
Smells Like Maple
The knock at the door comes early. I wake to find myself clothed and vaguely remember throwing my very unsexy pajamas on after the magical trip to the toilet. Roger is in his khakis but his shirt is off, revealing the tan pecs and abs I noted poolside. Before Roger, I’ve only ever seen flesh like that on magazine models. Pasty Keith wasn’t a sight for sore eyes in the bathing suit department.
Again with the comparisons.
Knock knock knock.
I try to stand. Remember immediately why that is a bad idea.
“Roger … Roger, can you get the door?” I nudge his shoulder. Grab a tissue to wipe eye boogers clean before he wakes to mascara blobbed around my eyes. And I’m going to need toothpaste before too much conversation happens.
“Huh? What? Heyyyy, good morning, beautiful,”
