Rolling around in the twin bed with the blue sheets and the green blanket tossed now on the floor, the spring night breeze slips through the crack between the windows and touches our naked bodies gently, blanketing us in a cool touch. The heat is gone, and the moment has passed like the wrinkles of these sheets, the damp feel of perspiration still existing, still clinching on our skin. The residue of the heat is cooled, and when it becomes cooled we become only two beating thumps lying on top of each other.
I touch her hand, to trace her fate lines wondering if the one that runs across her palms mean that what we are will go on longer. But it falls short before I can even reach pass the middle of her hand, and I pull away. I open my eyes and the lights of the city peek through, and I can see the fall and rise of her shoulders, the perfect curve from her back to her hips. I can’t see her face, only the strands of loose black hair sprawled across the pillow reaching towards me.
I can’t sleep so I take in her breathing, take in the late thumps of the walls speaking, take in the speeding of midnight taxis breaking new wind. I try to think, to let my mind wander into something but it doesn’t. It takes the night as it is and it leaves me silent on my bed.
I hear her arm shift, her hand reaching behind her searching for mine. I let her have it, her fingers enwrapping mine.
She whispers a good night, but I don’t say anything back pretending to be a sleep.
It’s nothing serious, I say to myself. It’s nothing serious as the heat fades and the moment has passed like the wrinkles of the bed sheet the next morning. They’ll be straighten and forgotten by tomorrow, and he would move on.
It was Spring, but nothing serious.