Vanilla

I woke the next morning, naked and cold. The bones in my hips felt oddly angular, my elbows, razor-sharp. The room smelled strongly of you and the odor of our bodies formed a lingering smog that coated the pock-marked walls.

I pushed back the covers and wrapped my aching body in a bathrobe. The terry cloth seemed too innocent, too soft and simple to cover the sin-ridden flesh of my breasts and hairless folds.

There was a splotchy, white stain on the top blanket – a rude reminder of our clunky, midnight explorations. I stared at it, too afraid to touch, lest you would materialize beside me. I could tell people it was spilt wax. I was clumsy and always doing things like that. I would need to wash it eventually.

I lit the candle that was on the bedside table. It crackled when it burned and I hoped that it would rid the room of the stench of your skin on mine, your breath on my neck, and your thighs between me.

I let the candle burn for 10 hours.

I wanted to rid myself of how I selfishly took you.

I wanted the room to burn.

It smelled like vanilla.

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