He came home from dancing late last night, me too tired to accompany the group. I fell asleep in his bed, a rock climbing guidebook fallen closed beside me. I was dreaming of being in Penn Station in New York, trying to find my ticket that I purchased to take the Long Island Rail Road. The lineup of commuters behind me becomes increasingly impatient. The woman behind the Plexiglas sighs and taps her pencil against the counter.

I wake from the dream as he crawls into bed. He reaches over to touch my skin and feels the veil of sweat covering my body. Stress from work coming out in my dreams, out in cold sweat.

“Oh, it’s too hot in here,” he murmurs and reaches over to crack open the window. I sleepily pull off my damp tank top, dropping it into a limp heap on the wood floor.

I cling to him all night, sometimes my face pressed into his chest, sometimes my face pressed into his back. My body slowly relaxes, and when the alarm goes off in the morning I no longer care about my vast to-do list at work, about looming project deadlines, and the impossible workload forecast.

I kiss him and run my hands across his skin. He turns to devour me.

He sits on the side of the bed, runs his hand through his hair. Stretches out his chest, his elbows coming together behind him like folded wings.