She lay in bed with her thoughts and her lover, trying to sort out which consumed her more. This man sleeping beside her, source of joy, pleasure, turmoil - she watched him, saw his chest rise and fall, ran her eyes over his soft mouth, felt his legs touching hers. She turned her gaze from him towards the window, and the darkness that lay beyond it. She saw the whiteness of the snowflakes, twirling and dancing in the night air. It made her long for the place inside her that no longer was.
She slowly, carefully untwined herself from her lover, pushing aside the covers to her left ever so softly. The silky black satin of her nightgown slipped up around her thighs as she raised her legs, sat up, and hung them over the side of the bed, like a child in a chair that is too tall. In the dark, she gazed at the whiteness of her legs, contrasting to her slip like the snowflakes to the night. She stood silently, feeling the gown slip back down over her round bottom, tickling its way down her thighs and coming to rest finally at her knees. Like a cat she padded over to the window, making her way through the darkness, past the table holding the now-warm champagne, to the snow-illuminated window. She gazed at the silent flakes, feeling the coldness of outside even through the glass. Her heart cracked, and she felt such a longing that she feared it would overtake her - longing for what used to be...missing her innocence. She wanted once again to dance like the snowflakes, and to be hidden from the melting truth in the black envelope of the night. She was no longer a child. She was no longer an innocent. She mourned for the part of herself that had died just a few hours ago in the very bed her lover now lay dreaming in.
She continued to watch her former comrades swirling past, pressing her hand to the glass and watching it fog around her outspread fingers. The coolness seeped through her palm and into her hand, strangely comforting her. Then she felt the heat of him, felt him standing behind her, coming in close and pressing into her. She felt his long arms encircle her crossed ones, his hot breath on her neck, and smelled the musk of him. She wondered if he, too, could feel the solitude she felt running through her just moments before, if he had awoke and seen her standing there, silhouetted against the window, and had known she was someplace else - he had her empty, crumpled half of the bed as proof. She wanted him and wanted him to go away at the same time; his embrace was both smothering and filling her new, desperate need for his closeness.
The sound of his voice on her name brought her back to him, to their hotel room, to their unmade bed, to the act of physical love that had taken place just a few hours ago. It had been the first time for her. She could still recall the feel of him inside her, still feeling the remains of his essence inside. He had made it so good for her, taking the right time, making sure not to be rough or hurtful, his sweet penetration so wonderfully slow. She had been physically ready. She thought she was equally prepared mentally, emotionally, but this sudden feeling of loss that was bringing tears to her eyes showed otherwise. Their act had been physically satisfying, but she could not help feeling somewhat disconnected from the actual act, the ancient dance taking place between their bodies, as if it were a dream. Now, after they had finished, lay nose-to-nose in each other's arms, and he had drifted to sleep, here she was - mourning what she no longer was, with her lover behind her, embracing her and struggling with what could be the matter with her.
