She came in from the bathroom still toweling her hair and something in me ached open. I was already in bed. I watched her hang the towel, cross the room, sit on the mattress. Her back. The long curve of her spine. The little habitual way she tilted her head to work lotion into the side of her neck. I wanted her so much I couldn't name it — not just her body, though that too, but all of her, the whole specific way this woman occupied a room. She was so close and I still wasn't touching her yet. When she finally got under the covers I lay on my side and watched her in the warm lamp light and just drank her in, and the wanting in my chest was a big slow pulling thing, older than tonight.
