Later I awaken to a peculiar sensation—a man lying next to me, snoring. I look over in the dim light of my bedroom and take in Fremont’s face. He’s lying on his side, mouth open with a little line of drool pouring out. I guffaw and clap a hand over my mouth to hold it in so as not to wake him.
I guess I wore the poor guy out.
I watch him sleep with renewed fondness. This isn’t the first time I’ve had s*x since Harry passed on, but it is the first time I’ve actually slept with a man, in the literal sense of the word. Is it odd that I find the act of actually sleeping with someone more intimate than f*****g him?
He seems comfortable enough with the idea. He snorts and rolls over, facing away from me.
And I stare at the ceiling. I had drifted off, but I know sleep will not return for me.
