The way your thumb hooked into the belt loop of his jeans was a better opening statement than anything I’ve ever heard in court.
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To the both of you—
I’m writing this at 5:15 AM because the coffee in this hotel is serviceable only if you’ve spent the last decade drinking the sludge in a Chicago law firm breakroom, and because sleep is a closing argument I’m not ready to deliver. My skin still smells like the cedar-heavy Cabernet we spilled on the rug, and my thighs are reminding me that I am forty-two, not twenty-four, and that you two are a physical liability I should have properly vetted before signing on.
I’m not going to send this. It would be a discovery violation of the highest order. But I need to map out how we got to this particular floor of the Solage, and why I’m currently looking at the bruise forming on my hip like it’s a trophy from a winning litigation.
***
August 14th: The Napa Valley Wine Train
I saw you first. Elena, you were wearing that white linen dress that looked like a dare in a room full of people holding red wine. You were leaning against the mahogany paneling of the Pullman car, watching the dry hills of St. Helena roll by with a look of profound boredom. It’s a look I recognize. It’s the face of a woman who is used to being the most expensive thing in the room and is waiting for someone to prove they can afford the upkeep.
Then I saw Marcus. He wasn’t looking at the scenery. He was looking at you. He was standing three feet away, a glass of Chardonnay in his hand, and the way he was watching the pulse in your throat was predatory. Not in a crude way—I deal with crude men every day in M&A, men who think a loud voice is the same thing as leverage. No, Marcus was watching you with the quiet, clinical precision of a man who has already done the due diligence and is just waiting for the signature.
I sat across the aisle and ordered a flight I didn’t want. I’m from Illinois; I know how to wait out a storm. I watched the way your hand brushed his as the train jolted. It wasn’t accidental. You did it to see if he’d spill. He didn’t. He didn't even blink. He just reached out, took the glass from your hand, set it on the small table, and whispered something in your ear that made your posture break. Just for a second.
I caught your eye then, Elena. You didn’t look away. You looked at my suit—the charcoal pinstripe I wear when I want people to know I charge by the minute—and then you looked at my mouth. I raised my glass. You smiled, and it was the sharpest thing I’d seen all year.
***
September 22nd: The Harvest Party at Quintessa
The heat was different in September. It wasn’t the humid, suffocating blanket of a Chicago summer that makes your blouse stick to the small of your back the moment you step off the Metra. It was dry, golden, and smelled like dust and fermentation.
I found you both in the fermentation room. The light was dim, filtered through high windows, casting long, geometric shadows across the giant concrete eggs. You were arguing, or at least, you were negotiating.
“It’s too much,” you said, Elena. You were backed up against one of those smooth, cool concrete vessels.
“It’s exactly enough,” Marcus replied. He was close. Too close for a public event, even one this exclusive. He had his hand on the concrete right next to your head.
I should have walked away. A good lawyer knows when a conversation is privileged. Instead, I stayed in the shadows of the doorway, my heart doing that frantic, rhythmic thudding it does right before I walk into a judge’s chambers.
“We have company,” Marcus said, without turning around.
I stepped forward. I didn’t apologize. “The Sauvignon Blanc is better than the red this year,” I said, my voice steady, though my blood felt like it had been carbonated. “Too much rain in the spring. The tannins are aggressive.”
Marcus turned then. He looked me up and down, not like I was a woman, but like I was a problem he was interested in solving. “I like aggressive,” he said. He reached out and took the glass I was holding. He didn’t drink from it. He held it up to the light, then looked at you, Elena. “Don’t we, El?”
You didn’t answer with words. You walked over to me. You were wearing silk—emerald green, biased-cut—and as you moved, the fabric clung to your hips in a way that felt like a breach of contract. You stopped inches from me. I could smell your perfume—sandalwood and something metallic, like a fresh copper penny.
“Julianne, right?” you asked. You’d remembered my name from the train.
“Yes,” I said.
You reached out and adjusted the lapel of my blazer. Your fingers grazed the skin of my neck, and the friction was a physical jolt. “You look like you’re always in control, Julianne. It’s very... Midwestern of you.”
“Control is a functional necessity,” I said, my voice dropping an octave.
Marcus stepped up behind you. He didn't touch you, but the heat coming off him was a pressure wave. “Control is a lie we tell ourselves to keep from screaming,” he whispered. He took a sip of my wine, his eyes locked on mine over the rim of the glass. Then he handed it back. The stem was warm where his fingers had been.
“Come to our place in St. Helena in November,” he said. It wasn’t an invitation. It was a summons.
***
November 10th: The Estate
The house was glass and steel, perched on a ridge like a hawk. When I arrived, the fog was rolling in off the Pacific, swallowing the valley floor in a grey tide.
I walked in, and the first thing I saw was the two of you on the long, low sofa in front of a fire that looked more like an architectural feature than a heat source. You were sharing a bottle of something dark. Marcus was dressed in black cashmere; you were in a sweater that looked like it was made of smoke.
“You came,” Marcus said. He stood up. He walked toward me with a stride that suggested he owned the air I was breathing.
“I’m a woman of my word,” I said. I let him take my coat. As he did, his hands lingered on my shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the muscle there, finding the tension I’ve carried since the fall quarter began.
“You’re tight,” he murmured, his breath hitting the back of my ear. “You spend too much time thinking, Julianne. Not enough time feeling.”
“I’m paid to think,” I countered, though my knees felt like they were made of water.
Elena stayed on the sofa, her legs curled under her. She was watching us with an expression of hungry curiosity. “Let her have a drink first, Marcus. Don't frighten the counsel. We need her sober enough to appreciate the vintage.”
He led me to the sofa. I sat between you. It was a deliberate choice, a sandwich of expensive fabrics and even more expensive intentions. Marcus poured me a glass—a 2012 Cabernet that tasted like blackberries and leather and sin.
“To the white-shoe lawyer,” Elena said, clinking her glass against mine. Her eyes were bright, focused. “Far from home. Far from the rules.”
We talked for an hour. About nothing. About everything. I told you about the grueling pace of the city, the way the Loop feels on a Tuesday morning, the cold that gets into your bones and stays there. Marcus talked about the vineyard, the way you have to stress the vines to get the best fruit.
“If they have it too easy,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, “the wine is flabby. It has no soul. You have to make them struggle. You have to push them to the edge of breaking. That’s where the complexity is.”
He was looking at me when he said it. His hand was on the back of the sofa, his fingers inches from my hair.
“And what happens when they break?” I asked.
“Then you harvest,” Elena said. She reached out and took my glass, setting it on the coffee table. She didn't ask. She just did it. Then she leaned over and kissed me.
It wasn't a tentative kiss. It was an interrogation. Her mouth was soft but her tongue was demanding, tasting the wine on my lips, exploring the shape of my mouth with a confidence that made my head spin. I groaned, a low sound in my chest that I haven't made in years, and I felt Marcus’s hand finally move from the sofa to the back of my neck.
He pulled me back slightly, breaking the kiss, but only so he could look at me. His eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide. “Is this legal, Julianne?” he teased, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. “Is this within the scope of your representation?”
“The statute of limitations hasn't run out yet,” I managed to say, my breath hitching as Elena’s hand found the hem of my skirt.
She didn't stop at the knee. Her palm was hot, sliding up my nylon-clad thigh with a slow, agonizing deliberation. I shifted my legs, opening for her, and she let out a small, triumphant hum against my neck.
“She’s wearing stockings,” Elena whispered to Marcus, her fingers hooking into the lace tops. “The real kind. With the clips.”
“I told you she was a woman of detail,” Marcus said. He stood up, pulling me with him. He didn’t say where we were going. He didn't have to.
***
November 10th (Later): The Bedroom
The room was all shadows and the sound of the rain finally hitting the glass walls. I felt exposed, and yet, for the first time in a decade, I didn’t feel the need to posture.
Marcus was behind me, unzipping my dress. The sound of the zipper was loud in the quiet room—a sharp, mechanical rasp. He peeled the silk down my arms, letting it pool at my feet. I stood there in my slip and my stockings, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Elena was in front of me. She had discarded her sweater. She was wearing a sheer black bra that left nothing to the imagination. She reached out and cupped my breasts through the silk of my slip, her thumbs raking over my nipples until they were painfully hard.
“You have such beautiful skin,” she murmured. “So pale. Like you’ve been kept in the dark.”
“I have,” I whispered.
Marcus’s hands were on my waist now, his palms broad and heavy. He leaned down, biting gently at the junction of my neck and shoulder. I gasped, leaning back into him, my body seeking the solid, unyielding heat of him.
“I want to see you,” Marcus said. He didn’t mean just naked. He meant *underneath*.
He turned me around. He was already half-undressed, his shirt open, his chest lean and etched with muscle. He looked like the kind of man who ran marathons just to prove he could endure the pain. He reached down and gripped my hair, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make me tilt my head back, exposing my throat to him.
“Are you going to be a good girl, Julianne?” he asked. “Or are we going to have to litigate this?”
I laughed, a jagged, breathless sound. “I’m a very expensive mistake, Marcus.”
“I’ve got the budget for it,” he said.
He picked me up then, tossing me onto the massive bed. The duvet was cool, but I was burning. Elena was there a second later, crawling over me, her hair falling around us like a curtain. She kissed my neck, my collarbone, her hands roaming over me with a frantic energy that contrasted with Marcus’s slow, predatory movements as he stripped off the rest of his clothes.
I watched him. I couldn’t help it. He was magnificent in the dim light—all sharp angles and dark hair and a cock that looked thick and heavy, already fully erect. My mouth went dry. I looked at Elena, who was watching my reaction with a smirk.
“Do you want him?” she asked, her hand sliding between my legs, pressing hard against the silk of my panties. I was already soaked, the fabric clinging to me, outlining the shape of my labia.
“Yes,” I choked out.
“Ask him,” she commanded. She bit my earlobe. “Ask him to show you what he does to vines that need to be stressed.”
I looked up at Marcus. He was standing at the edge of the bed, his arms crossed, watching me with an intensity that made me feel like I was under oath.
“Marcus,” I said, my voice trembling. “Please.”
“Please what, Julianne? Be specific. I like a clear contract.”
“Fuck me,” I said. The words felt illicit, a violation of every professional standard I’ve ever held. “I want you to fuck me while she watches. Or while she helps. I don't care. Just... don't stop.”
He smiled then. It wasn't a kind smile. It was the smile of a man who had just won.
He moved onto the bed, pushing Elena aside. He grabbed my ankles and hauled me toward him, my body sliding easily over the smooth sheets. He didn't take off my panties—he just ripped the silk aside, the sound of the fabric tearing making me cry out.
He didn't use his fingers. He didn't use his tongue. He just lined himself up and pushed inside me in one long, devastating thrust.
I screamed. I couldn’t help it. He was so big, so much, and I was so ready for him. My walls clamped down around him, a frantic, rhythmic pulsing that seemed to surprise him. He groaned, burying his face in my neck, his hands gripping my hips so hard his knuckles went white.
“Christ, Julianne,” he rasped. “You’re like a vice.”
“Negotiate that,” I gasped, wrapping my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
Elena was right there, her hands on my breasts, her mouth on mine, swallowing my moans as Marcus started to move. He was relentless. He wasn’t interested in a slow buildup; he wanted to drive me into the mattress. Every thrust was a statement of fact, a blunt-force argument that I had no rebuttal for.
I was coming within minutes. It was too much—the weight of him, the heat of her, the way the rain was lashing the glass. I felt the orgasm building in the base of my spine, a white-hot tension that was about to snap.
“Marcus,” I sobbed into Elena’s mouth.
“I’ve got you,” he said, his voice a low growl. He hit a spot deep inside me that made my vision go grey. “I’ve got you, Julianne. Give it to me. Give me the whole damn thing.”
I broke. I came so hard my back arched off the bed, my muscles seizing as the world dissolved into a series of sharp, electric pulses. I was vaguely aware of Elena’s fingers inside me, adding to the friction, and Marcus’s weight as he gave one last, powerful shove and followed me over the edge, his body shuddering as he came deep inside me.
We stayed like that for a long time, a tangle of limbs and heavy breathing in the dark.
But that was just the beginning. That was the opening statement. The real trial started after midnight, when the wind picked up and you decided that one round wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy the terms of our agreement.
***
I'm looking at the clock now. 5:45 AM. You’re both still asleep. I should probably get dressed, find my heels, and call a car before the sun comes up and the light makes everything look like a liability.
But I’m still sitting here, looking at the way your arm, Marcus, is thrown over Elena’s waist, and the way your hair, Elena, is spread across the pillow like spilled ink.
I think I’ll stay for the second half of the bottle. I think I want to see what happens when we move from the opening arguments to the cross-examination.
***
November 11th: 1:15 AM — The Library
The library was less about books and more about the curation of ego. Floor-to-ceiling walnut, rolling ladders that looked like they’d never seen a dusty thumb, and a desk made of a single slab of petrified wood that probably cost more than my first year’s salary at the firm.
You didn't lead me there to read, Marcus. You led me there because the chair behind that desk was deep, oxblood leather, and you wanted to see how I looked sitting in your seat of power.
“Sit,” you commanded.
I sat. The leather was cold against the backs of my thighs, the torn remnants of my silk panties still clinging to one hip like a discarded brief. You leaned over the desk, your palms flat on the wood, staring at me with the kind of focused intensity I usually reserve for finding the loophole in a non-compete clause.
“Cross-examination,” you said, your voice dropping into that register that vibrates in the floorboards. “Tell me, Julianne. In all those years in the Loop, fighting over pennies and pride, how many times have you actually let someone see you fail?”
“I don’t fail,” I said, trying to summon the iron in my spine. It was difficult. My heart was still hammering against my ribs, and the musk of our first encounter was heavy in the air between us.
“Liar,” Elena whispered. She had followed us in, still naked, carrying the half-empty bottle of Cabernet and two fresh glasses. She didn't offer me one. She walked behind the chair, her cool fingers settling on my temples, massaging the tension there. “You’re failing right now. You’re failing to stay composed. Your pulse is visible in your neck, darling. It’s practically screaming.”
She leaned down, her breasts brushing against the back of my head, and licked the shell of my ear. I shivered, my hands gripping the armrests of the chair.
“I want the truth,” Marcus said, rounding the desk. He didn't stop until he was between my knees, forcing them apart. He didn't use his hands. He just used the sheer presence of his body to claim the space. “I want to know what it feels like to be the one who finally breaks the witness.”
He reached out and took my chin, forcing me to look up at him. “You spend your life being the smartest person in the room. The most prepared. The most guarded. But right here? You’re just a woman who wants to be used until she can’t remember her own name.”
He unbuttoned his trousers with a slow, agonizing deliberation. When he freed himself, he was still terrifyingly hard, the vein along the side of his cock pulsing. He didn't move toward my mouth. He just stood there, inches away, letting me look.
“Object,” he challenged, a smirk playing on his lips. “State your grounds.”
“Irrelevant,” I managed, my voice a breathy wreck. “And... highly prejudicial.”
“Overruled,” Elena said into my hair. She reached around and unbuttoned my blouse—the one I’d put back on in a fit of temporary sanity—and shoved it off my shoulders. She didn’t stop there. She reached down, her hand sliding over my belly, her fingers dipping into the wetness he’d left behind earlier.
She brought her fingers to my mouth. “Taste yourself, Julianne. Taste how much you wanted him.”
I sucked her fingers into my mouth, my eyes never leaving Marcus’s. The salt and the wine and the metallic tang of arousal hit the back of my throat like a shot of something 100-proof. I felt my walls clench, a phantom ache starting deep in my pelvis.
Marcus didn't wait for me to finish. He stepped closer, his cock brushing against my lips. “Now,” he said. “Show me your work.”
I took him. I didn't do it with the practiced grace of a woman trying to please; I did it with the hunger of a woman who had been starving for a decade. I wanted to swallow the arrogance right out of him. I used my tongue, my teeth, the suction of my throat, pushing him as deep as I could until I was gagging, my eyes watering.
He groaned, his hands coming down to tangle in my hair, holding me there. He wasn't gentle. He moved his hips in a slow, rhythmic grind, his length sliding against the roof of my mouth, hitting the sensitive spot at the back that made my whole body vibrate.
Behind me, Elena wasn't idle. She had climbed onto the desk, her legs draping over the sides of the chair. She reached down and found my clit, her thumb moving in a fast, cruel circle that made my hips jerk.
I was caught between them—the hard, unyielding pressure of Marcus in my mouth and the sharp, electric friction of Elena’s hand. I tried to pull back, to catch my breath, but Marcus held me firm.
“No,” he grunted. “Stay right there. I want to feel you struggle.”
I did struggle. I fought for air, fought for control, but the more I fought, the more the pleasure intensified. It was a feedback loop of sensation. Elena’s thumb was relentless, her nails occasionally catching on the sensitive skin, a tiny prick of pain that only made the heat flare brighter.
I reached a breaking point where the room started to tilt. The smell of old paper and expensive leather mixed with the scent of sex, and I felt my orgasm rising like a tide. I hummed into Marcus, a low, vibrating sound of surrender, and he finally let go of my hair, his hands moving to the desk to brace himself.
He pulled out, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and looked down at me. I was a mess—my hair ruined, my lipstick smeared, my chest heaving.
“You’re a terrible witness, Julianne,” he whispered, his eyes dark with a lethal kind of affection. “You give everything away too easily.”
He didn't give me time to recover. He hoisted me out of the chair and onto the petrified wood of the desk. The surface was freezing, a shock to my system that made me gasp. He pushed my legs back until my knees were practically touching my ears, exposing me completely to the harsh light of the library lamps.
“Elena,” he said.
She didn't need further instructions. She moved between my legs, her face inches from mine. She looked at me with a hunger that was almost frightening.
“I’ve wanted to do this since the train,” she whispered. “Since I saw you looking at us and wondered if you’d be as delicious as you looked in that suit.”
She buried her face in me.
It wasn't a soft, romantic gesture. She ate me like she was trying to find something I’d hidden. Her tongue was broad and flat, licking me from the base of my clit down to my anus, over and over, until I was sobbing, my hands flailing on the desk for purchase.
Marcus was behind her, his hand on her shoulder, watching every move. He reached down and started to stroke himself, his eyes locked on the way my body reacted to his wife’s mouth.
I came with a violence that surprised me. My legs shook, my heels digging into the wood of the desk, a series of high, thin cries escaping my throat that I didn't recognize as my own. Elena didn't stop. She stayed there, her tongue flicking against me through the aftershocks, keeping the tension at a fever pitch until I thought my heart would actually stop.
When she finally pulled away, she was glistening, her chin wet with me. She looked up at Marcus and smiled.
“She’s done,” Elena said.
“Not yet,” Marcus replied, his voice like a gavel. “We haven't reached the closing arguments.”
***
November 11th: 3:10 AM — The Wet Room
The shower was the size of a small Chicago apartment, all grey slate and rain-heads that felt like a tropical downpour. The steam had filled the room, turning the glass walls into opaque veils.
I was leaning against the slate, the hot water beating against my shoulders, trying to wash away the feeling of being completely undone. But you two weren't finished with me.
You came in together. The water turned your skin into a landscape of light and shadow. Marcus looked like a statue come to life, his muscles taut, his movements efficient. Elena was more fluid, a silver-and-black ghost in the mist.
They didn't touch me at first. They just stood there, letting the water hit them, watching me.
“You look like you’re trying to scrub the evidence away,” Marcus said, stepping into the stream of water next to me. He took the soap from the niche in the wall and started to lather his hands.
He started at my neck. He washed me with a clinical thoroughness that felt more intimate than the sex. He moved his hands over my breasts, my stomach, the curves of my hips, his fingers tracing the lines of my body as if he were memorizing a contract.
Elena was behind me, her body pressed against my back, her hands sliding under my arms to cup my breasts. The soap made everything slick, frictionless. I felt like I was floating in the steam, the only solid things in the world being the weight of them against me.
“We’re going to take you back to the bed,” Elena whispered against my wet skin. “And this time, we’re not going to be gentle about it. Do you understand, Julianne? No more games. No more pretending you’re in charge.”
“I understand,” I said, and for the first time in my life, the lack of control didn't feel like a threat. It felt like a release.
Marcus rinsed the soap from my body with the handheld sprayer, the warm water hitting my sensitive skin with a force that made me shiver. He leaned in, his lips brushing mine. “Good. Because I’m tired of talking.”
***
November 11th: 4:20 AM — The Final Motion
By the time we got back to the bedroom, the storm outside had peaked. The wind was howling off the ridge, rattling the glass, making the whole house feel like it was vibrating.
The bed was a wreck—the sheets tangled, the pillows on the floor. It looked like a crime scene.
Marcus pushed me down onto my stomach. He didn't say a word. He just grabbed a handful of the duvet and shoved it under my hips, propping me up.
Elena crawled onto the bed in front of me. She took my hands and pulled them up over my head, her fingers interlocking with mine, pinning me to the mattress. She looked into my eyes, her expression one of pure, unadulterated triumph.
“Watch him,” she said.
I felt Marcus behind me. He didn't use any preamble. He used a handful of the wine-heavy lubricant from the nightstand and then he pushed into me.
But he didn't go into my vagina.
He found the other entrance, the one I usually keep under strict lock and key. The pressure was immense, a sharp, stretching fullness that made me cry out and try to crawl away.
“Don't move,” Marcus growled, his hand coming down hard on my lower back, pinning me to the bed. “Stay still, Julianne. Take it.”
I gasped, my face buried in the sheets, as he began to push. It was slow, agonizingly slow, his body forcing its way into a space that wasn't meant for it. I felt like I was being split open, like the structural integrity of my entire being was being tested.
“Look at me,” Elena commanded, her voice sharp.
I forced my eyes open. She was right there, her face inches from mine, her eyes burning with a dark light. She reached out and caught a tear that had escaped my eye, her thumb stroking my cheek.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, her voice suddenly tender. “Just breathe. Let him in. Give him the whole thing.”
I did. I forced myself to go limp, to stop fighting the invasion. And as soon as I let go, the pain started to shift. It didn't disappear, but it transformed into a deep, throbbing ache that seemed to radiate through my entire body.
Marcus felt the change. He increased his pace, his thrusts becoming more confident, more powerful. He was hitting something deep inside me, a nerve endings I didn't know I had, and the sensation was so intense it was almost unbearable.
I was shaking, my muscles twitching with the effort of holding still. Elena leaned down and kissed me, her tongue echoing the movement of Marcus’s body. I was caught in a pincer movement of pleasure and pain, a total sensory overload that made the room dissolve into a blur of grey and gold.
“I’m going to... I’m going to...” I couldn't finish the sentence.
“Go on,” Marcus said, his voice a strained rasp behind me. “Tell the court what you’re going to do.”
“I’m coming!” I screamed, the words tore from my throat as my body finally gave up the ghost.
The orgasm was a seismic event. It wasn't the sharp, electric burst from before; it was a long, slow-motion collapse. My internal muscles clamped down on him with a desperation that was almost violent, and I felt Marcus’s body stiffen as he reached his own limit.
He let out a low, guttural sound—a sound of pure, animalistic release—and buried himself deep inside me, his seed hot and thick against my walls.
Elena was coming too, her body arched, her fingers digging into my wrists as she rode the wave of our shared collapse.
We stayed like that for what felt like hours, three bodies fused together in the wreckage of a five-star bedroom, while the rain turned the world outside into a blurred, grey memory.
***
5:55 AM — The Summary Judgment
The sun is just starting to bleed through the fog now, a pale, sickly yellow that doesn't belong in a world where last night happened.
You’re both still out. Marcus, you’re snoring—just a little, a sound that makes you seem human for the first time since I met you. Elena, you’ve somehow managed to take up three-quarters of the bed, your leg thrown over Marcus’s hip like you’re staking a claim.
I’m dressed. My suit is a bit wrinkled, and my stockings are somewhere in the library, probably being used as a bookmark. I’m wearing a pair of Elena’s silk yoga pants and a cashmere sweater that smells like her perfume. I’ll send them back. Or I won’t. Consider it a retainer.
I’ve looked at my phone. Sixteen missed calls from the office. Three urgent emails regarding the merger in Delaware. A text from my sister asking if I’m coming home for Thanksgiving.
The world is waiting for Julianne, the partner. The woman who bills six hundred an hour and never lets her voice tremble. The woman who knows exactly where the line is and never, ever crosses it.
But that woman is currently sitting in a hotel bar in her rival’s clothes, drinking terrible coffee and writing a letter she’ll never send to two people who just dismantled her entire life in the space of twelve hours.
I should be terrified. I should be calling my malpractice insurance. I should be running for the first flight back to O’Hare.
Instead, I’m looking at the bruise on my hip. I’m thinking about the way the petrified wood felt against my skin. I’m thinking about the taste of the wine and the smell of the rain.
I think I’m going to go back upstairs. I think I’m going to crawl back into that bed, between the two of you, and wait for you to wake up.
I want to see what happens in the rebuttal phase.
I’ll see you in a minute. Don't wake up yet. I want to watch you for a while longer before the real world decides to enter its appearance.
Case closed. For now.
J.
