It’s not strange to hear my dorm room shower running at 3 AM on any given evening. Saturday’s less so; four girls sharing two rooms, we’ve learned to ignore the footfalls in that tiled hall, the rattling click of a lock just outside of our dreams. We only ever barely wake up to the sounds of drunken giggles in the commons, or the fridge’s hermetic gush when we try to sneak our midnight snacks. Three AM is the safest hour to interrupt wetdreams. Mine were brought to a blind reality with that perfect, pushing hand.
Tonight, you and I are still very much in the waking world, even if we’re palming our way through the total darkness of this dorm. The first creak of my bed wouldn’t wake Vanessa up. The second creak of springs when I exit these innocent blankets and pillows could stir her – but it’s nothing more than her roommate going to the restroom, right? That other lump she saw when she walked in earlier, the other shape beneath the sheets was just a guest – surely, she thinks, they’re left behind in bed. The darkness hides even her own hand before her face, and sleep takes it to guide her away from our plans. We are safe to lace each other’s fingers, to open the door and push naked heels from carpet to cold floors. One finger is pressed to your lips until you wrap your tongue and suck it soft. Bad. I’d slap you how you like it, if I knew it wouldn’t echo through the hall.