Morning

He didn’t want to wake her so he levered himself out of bed slowly, and sideways. He could have sworn he didn’t move the duvet, but she rolled over as he stood up. He held his breath as she drew inwards, arms meeting legs slowly, but with purpose, like a Venus Flytrap closing. Why did he think of a Venus Flytrap? Freud would probably have something to say about that...

The curtains were drawn, and although it must have been past ten, little light managed to squeeze its way past the heavy, red fabric. The rays that did get through burst against the far wall, and dripped down her dresser. From his seat on the edge of the mattress, he could only make out vague shapes on the dark carpet. He cursed himself for wearing black the day before, and set about searching the floor for his trousers.

As he pulled on his trousers, she rolled again. Beneath her eyelids, she was looking straight at him. Where was his shirt? Why did he have to wear black?

He found it by the legs of the chair, and had managed to do up three buttons before she woke.

“Morning,” he said. He kept his back to her.
“You off already?” She sounded disappointed.

He was relieved when she switched the light on; in the foreign brightness there was no obligation for eye contact, and he could see the rest of his things in a neat pile at the foot of the bed. He busied himself in lacing his shoes. She watched in silence as he cleaned his glasses. He hadn’t taken his eyes off his feet.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, turning so that she sat next to him. “We could do this again sometime. If you wanted to.”

He stood. “With my job... it’d be a bit weird.”

He slipped on his dog-collar, and left.