Roman
There were forty-eight swirls in total on the four blades of my ceiling fan. I didn’t even know there was a pattern on them until this night. No matter how long I closed my eyes, sleep refused to settle in, so I counted swirls like sheep.
It hadn’t worked.
How could it when she lay barely twelve feet away, her gentle scent of lilacs seeping into every orifice of my home. Everything about her was gentle, not just her natural perfume. And goddess, her voice. Like soft physical tendrils, warmed by sunshine, that curled around their target.
I shifted uncomfortably in my bed, adjusting the arm tucked under my head and ready to throw the stifling thin sheet off. No matter which way I rearranged my body, the lumps in my mattress seemed to grow.
‘You could have been in her bed, but you
