I become aware at a moment where I'm up to my knees in glacial runoff, my rod high behind my shoulder at the line's zenith, and my eyes are instinctively squinting at the dancing reflection of the sun. The fly skips over my head and floats to the water, landing where the sun floats on the river. At that my world and vision became red. Red like a fissure in the earth. Red somewhere between copper and crimson. Red like the sun beaming through the blood in your eyelids.
Ah, that explains it.
It's December. I'm not fishing, I'm in bed. My legs have crawled from cover, there was never a river. My brain renewed the knot with the here and now, and I rolled over. No, I tried to roll over, but my shoulder is pinned. It's that moment that I smell her. Feminine sweat and Tibetan incense, top notes of vodka and oil- all ingredients of the evening prior. I have a strict No Sleepovers rule (more because it distally defends my own self from the knowledge that I do sleep better with an intimate partner than anything else), the liquor had obviously gotten the best of us. She had found my protruding collarbones and made a pillow of them. The sheet had slid off most of her body, but wove through her legs and covered her front and shoulder. I could see the nylon rope from the past evening loosely wound around her exposed ankle. Her ass peeked from the opposite side, it was making me hard. Her knees cocked just right that her back arched slightly and her ass stuck out like an offer. I couldn't help myself.