Afterglow

Sometimes, words play over and over in my head. And sometimes, they scream so loudly, I can't ignore them, even if it happens to be four o'clock in the morning, interrupting a dead sleep. The first sentence of the following short-short is a prime example of this.


     Sunlight spills through the bay windows, setting the crimson curls next to his pillow ablaze. Flashes of entangled limbs, ebbing and flowing to the beat of desire, fill his sleepy head. Heat scorches through him. He scans the room, searching for the telltale trail of cast-away clothing he hopes is real. It is there. She shifts, and the sheet slides off the curve of a bared hip. And he basks in the afterglow.