Inside the cool space of her apartment, she listens to his engine fading down the street.
Joseph.
Rhiannon touches her mouth, the tips of two fingers exploring her lips, testing to see how swollen they are. They dip inside and she tastes salt.
Her refrigerator hums. The cat's claws knead the couch cushions. She can hear both, see neither, and doesn't want to turn on the lights.
She presses her back against the door. Through her dress, it feels hard, uncomfortable, but even pain sensation is welcome. Her nerve endings are screaming-alive. The tingle in her lips. The sore place on her stomach where his fingernails dug in. The flush across her collarbone. The throb between her legs. All because she kissed him.
Mental replay, from start to finish.
Rhiannon's eyelids grow heavy. She balls her fists in the red folds of her dress and squeezes. It was a good idea to end the night early. She has no control over herself.
The corners of her mouth twitch, the precursors to a smile. She remembers this, being love/lust drunk over him. He gives her a buzz with the stories his eyes tell when he looks at her. He wields seduction with the ease of an ancient god. Rhiannon pictures his necklaces laying against his brown skin. White sheets around his waist. Her index finger tracing ink lines.
It's been a year and a half since she loved him last. So much has happened in between.
She locks the door and moves to bedside. A sketchbook is on the pillow, leatherbound, engraved RIL. Will you ever forgive me?
"I don't know what I'm doing."
She pulls the dress overhead, not wanting to bother with the zip. A thread snaps somewhere.
Stretching stomach-down across the bed, Rhiannon is a tightly-wound woman in her bra and underwear and high-heeled shoes. The bed linens seem one hundred times softer than yesterday.
Putting cheek on the mattress, she closes her eyes and lets her imagination drift until she sleeps.
Damage control can wait. Right now, she dreams the fairy tale.