As a creature who loves comfort above all else, I thrive in the coziness of night. I've made a ritual of reading in bed with a steaming mug of peppermint, sipping slowly, then shivering in the kitchen as I warm the kettle for a re-steep. I shiver, even in the summer.
In Washington Park, as the bold end-of-summer sun set behind you, I shivered too. The criss-crosses of chem-trails and the orange glow of dusk on your ears were jolting. It's the easily-missable details that get me, every damn time.
Later that night, I burrowed under the covers and pressed my face against your neck, unfazed by your sweat. “Turn the fan on?”, you whispered, as your thumb traced my collar bone.
By midnight you were snoring. I grinned as your chest rumbled beneath my cheek. The city moved outside the window above our heads and infused the room with fluorescent, allowing my eyes to collect the exact size and shape of your hand as it rested on your belly, the flutter of your eyelashes as you slipped into REM sleep, the subtle twitch of your right shoulder. Details and shivers. For once, I was thankful for light pollution.
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