An ungodly hour, she thinks, to demand such propriety from her.
They lie as a tangled web of limbs, still and warm and comforting.
The ache is dull at first.
The silence is something new.
The heat is an oppressive kind.
There is nothing, she thinks, that can beat this feeling.
The first drop lands on the leaf of dying dandelion in the middle of the park.
It’s been a while, hasn’t it?