I crept out of bed, kissing you lightly on the cheek, then tiptoed from the room. Actually, I didn’t tiptoe; I walk softer on the outside soles of my feet. Softly down the stairs, so quietly not even the cat opened an eye. I made a sandwich and poured some juice into a plastic water bottle.
The sun was just beginning to kiss the sky, making her blush rosy. Grandmother moon saw the kiss from the far end of the hall and she smiled mysteriously. Outside, the world was still and waking; birds sang to one another, frogs and crickets, and a dog barked half-heartedly. I debated for a moment pushing my car up the street before starting the engine, then did just that, smiling as I thought of the same scene from a movie or a book whose title I can’t remember.
I drove away from your house, breathing in the still-chilly morning air. I lit a cigarette and rolled down the window. It was far too early for anything good to be on the radio, just recycled, canned programming from somewhere south of the border. I leaned my head back against the seat and flicked ashes out the window. I could still smell your scent on my skin; could still feel the paths your hands traced over my body. If I looked in the mirror, would I see your kisses? Passion brands all over my neck, my torso, my inner thighs?
The sandwich I’d made at your marble counter lay on the folded newspaper I snatched from your neighbour’s front driveway. He would phone the paperboy’s mother and complain, the paperboy would get in trouble, and there would end up being two papers delivered to your neighbour for the next two weeks. I won’t tell you about that, of course – about stealing your neighbour’s paper. I also won’t tell you about what I did in your neighbour’s hedge at the edge of your driveway (I didn’t want to wake you).
Mine was the only car on the highway, the yellow lines flying by and the horizon to either side never moving. I pretended Motorhead was playing on the radio, tossed my cigarette out the window, and took a long swallow of the juice still cold from your fridge, moisture beaded on the outside of the bottle. I started on the sanwich, then decided I didn’t want it after all and set it back down on the newspaper.
You wouldn’t wake for another two or three hours. Your alarm was set for six, but you never get out of bed before seven-thirty. What will you do when you wake and find me gone?