Saturday Morning Shorts: “The morning after…”

© Liz Van Steenburgh | Dreamstime Stock Photos

© Liz Van Steenburgh | Dreamstime Stock Photos

I can feel his warmth next to me. He pulls me closer and kisses my neck. Whispers “I love you,” in my ear. I smile sleepily, watch the morning sunlight come through the window. I don’t want to get up. I can lay here forever next to him; let him hold me, let him love me. It seems unreal. I close my eyes, let his warmth embrace me. When I feel an elbow in my side, my eyes pop open. It is unreal.

I’m on my back, mouth partially open. My head is swimming and so is my stomach. When I see the empty champagne flute on the nightstand, I groan. We’d gone through an entire bottle of Moet and half a bottle of Asti. Hey, had to bring the New Year in right. Now I’m paying for it. I ease out of the bed and head straight for the bathroom. As soon as my butt hit the toilet, I found the real reason they call it bubbly.

I take three Excedrins to ease the pain in my head and climb back in the bed. I feel sore. Drunken sex gone terribly awry. It’s a brand new year and I bring it in flat on my back drunk and unsatisfied. I watch him sleep, and wonder how we got to this point. It was our first sexual encounter in a few months, and it took almost two bottles of champagne to get it. It was sweaty, loud, and sloppy, just like in the movies and on tv. Grinding, grunting, and grimacing ends in huge orgasms for both parties. But in reality, we just passed out, no orgasm.

I stare at him and wonder why this couldn’t be like my dream. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks suddenly, his tone obviously annoyed. “No reason,” I whisper, his disgusted look giving me chills. I pull the sheets over my naked body.

“Don’t you have to be at work soon?”

“Not until 11,” I answer. He leaves the room. I can hear the faucet running in the bathroom.

My reality is that his warmth is cold, his kiss meaningless, and that damn morning sunshine is piercing my eyes. I turn away from the window, feeling hurt, rejected, and screwed.

 © 2013 — Dahlia Savage


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