***
In Amy’s apartment the following morning, I woke, opened my eyes a slit, and then squeezed them closed. The sun shining in through the window put an intolerable pressure on the back of my eyes. I ran a thick tongue over my lips, the inside of my mouth feeling like a dry sponge.
I pulled the comforter to my chin and settled calmly against the satin sheets.
Usually, I started my morning reliving the previous day and setting out my schedule for the day. This morning was no typical morning, however. As much as I tried, I couldn’t remember yesterday. I found it strange not to recall at least one detail and told myself to relax. The memories would come. Give them a moment.
My first remembrance was how anxious I’d felt last night. Then I remembered the panic attacks. The recollections came then like a bullet train speeding toward its final destination. Jackson Carlisle, motorbike, woods, broken-down camp, bikers, businessmen, professionals, boohoos – mine – empty beer bottles – dozens of them, probably mine too – cigars, pizza – mushroom and pepperoni – Jackson’s lips, hips grinding against hips – mine and someone else’s.
I also remembered how much I enjoyed Jackson’s kisses. Unfortunately, I’d ruined any chance of a relationship with him, if he’d wanted one with me. I recalled our moments together in his office last evening. His ardor seemed genuine. Maybe he never refused an offer for sex. That would make us worlds apart, because I wasn’t the type to give anything away without a good reason. Self-satisfaction wouldn’t be one.
I lifted the comforter and peeked at myself.
Naked.
Not a stitch of clothes.
I never slept in the nude.
A lump under the covers next to me moved.
My heartbeat accelerated drastically. What had I done? Apprehensive, I held my breath and waited for the body to emerge. After a moment, a head popped out.
“Morning, sweetheart.”