Mid March
I stared down at my phone, at the photo I’d taken at Natasha’s the weekend before. Natasha was asleep, her arm thrown up above her head, breasts covered by the sheet.
How many years had it been since I had felt this way about a woman? Since I could barely stand being away from a girlfriend or my wife for more than a few hours?
Searching my memory, I could find none. Perhaps some from high school came close, but the woman had my mind wandering in the middle of the day. She had me working long into the night so that I could leave early just to see her sooner. I didn’t tell her that, though. I couldn’t.
Only a month had passed, but it felt like multiple months. There was never the usual period of awkwardness. It felt like she knew the deepest parts of me without even trying. And
