You Need A Place To Stay, And It's Raining Day!

Naturally, you call your ex-girlfriend, the one with whom you had an incomparable erotic connection. A physical understanding that left the two of you unable to occupy the same physical space without screaming. It began to seem like the sex took place solely to give the screaming an appropriate context.

So anyway, you need a place to stay for the night. You have the cash for a hotel, but call her. Because you haven't done the wrong thing in a very long time.

I have a husband.

You don't dignify that with a response.

But he's at his parents' house for the weekend.

You ask if her buzzer's still broken.

When she says hi, she's sweet. You don't remember her being sweet. Her kiss in the doorway is gentle. It's loving, searching. The sex begins on the living room floor but ends in her bed, properly.

What's the boyfriend like?

He's kind. Rich. He loves me.

You can't believe you're gonna ask this. Um, kids?

She turns her head on its side to give you a silly smile. I'd say so. I'd say if you come back here in two years I'll be a mom.

You want to tell her about your pending divorce, but it's suddenly too depressing. Instead, you want to ask whether what the two of you were has been erased by the four and a half years that followed. But instead you ask:

Why'd you do this?

Wanted to find out. She's still smiling silly.

Did you?

Didn't you?

She's still got a smile. You return it. You take her in your arms and the two of you hug there on the bed in silence, both aural and physical. You hold her still for an hour and a half, before going to the yellow pages to locate a hotel.

Happy You Need A Place To Stay, And It's Raining Day!