The room is too quiet tonight,
not peaceful, not lonely exactly,
just empty in all the places
her mind keeps putting him.

His shoes by the door.
His watch on the nightstand.
His voice somewhere behind her
while she pretends not to notice
how easily he changes the air in a room.

None of it is memory.

That may be the cruelest part.

She has never fallen asleep beside him,
never woken to find him still there,
never known the ordinary intimacy
of sharing four walls with him
when there was nowhere either of them
needed to be.

So tonight, she invents it.

There is too much bed for one body,
too much cool linen against warm skin,
too much untouched space beside her
where she lets herself imagine
the weight of him,
the heat of him,
the quiet certainty of his presence.

She wonders what it would feel like
to have him here without a clock watching,
without the inevitable moment
when one of them has to leave.

What would he look like
standing in the doorway of this room,
knowing the night belonged to them?

Would he toss his keys on the dresser?
Leave his shoes beside hers?
Would he climb into bed
and pull her into the space beside him
as though she had always belonged there?

She closes her eyes
and builds him from wanting.

The sound of his voice when it drops.
The look that makes something inside her
go deliciously still.
The gravity of him,
even from miles away,
pulling at a body that knows exactly
who it wants.

She imagines looking at him
from across the bed,
the lights low,
the whole night stretched before them,
and knowing she would not have to explain
the hunger written across her face.

He would know.

Perhaps that is what makes
the fantasy so intoxicating.

It is not simply wanting his body.

It is wanting the impossible luxury
of his time.

Midnight.
Two in the morning.
The dark hours when there is nothing
to steal him away.

To know what it feels like
when a visit does not have an ending
already waiting inside it.

To reach across unfamiliar sheets
and find him there.

And later,
when desire finally gives way
to exhaustion,
to imagine the strangest intimacy of all:

sleep.

His breathing in the darkness.
His warmth beside her.
No goodbye yet.

Just him.

Just her.

Just this room,
and for once,
more hours than they know
what to do with.

She opens her eyes.

The other side of the bed is untouched.

Of course it is.

But somewhere between midnight
and sleep,
she smiles at the empty space anyway,

because for a little while
she can pretend
she knows what it is
to have an entire night
with him.

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