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Her fingers grazed his leg as his chest gently and slowly heaved up and down. With his eyes closed he looks different, more calm, like a little boy who resisted siesta time with all his might but eventually ended up falling prey. The curly, wispy strands on his calf enfold her index finger in a longing way that soothes her -- how soft and velvety they are to the feel of her hand. To her it feels better than fingers holding her back but eventually letting go.

She isn't like the others. That, she knows for certain. Sure, she enjoys the unclasping of the buttons, she anticipates the falling away of clothes, she looks forward to hearing the repeated grunting of some higher being, or sometimes even her name. But it's the quiet, little moments she looks forward to the most. That moment when he finally closes his eyes, either by extreme delight or relief, heaves a huge sigh, and trails off to slumber. That moment when she finally hears his heart slow down as she presses her cheek against his damp chest, when she can play with his velvety legs without disturbing him. All the others questioned her; they couldn't understand.

She glances at his bedside table beside him. His wallet is slumped out, almost impossible to close with the amount of cash in it. Or were they just pictures? From where she was lying down she couldn't tell. What was his story? She sighs. She softly rests her head on his chest again, closing her eyes and trying to force away the morning as it slowly creeps back in through the windows.

I could get used to this, she thinks. She could do this for the rest of her life. She could do without the promises of forever, the certainty of an "us." Maybe when he wakes up, she'll ask him. Maybe he'll wince for a while, but give in. Maybe he'll be honest. His leg feels comfortable and warm against the light stroking of her fingers. The silence envelops her, as if she is knowing more and more about him even without the words. Perhaps a little more touching would reveal to her his name.