Anne owned six white Hanes undershirts with the necks cut out. She liked the way they freed her spotted collarbone and billowed easily around her waist.
That night, her wet hair felt cool and confident as it flirted with her neck and brushed the frayed edges of the shirt.
"I think you're crazy... maybe," Thom told her. And she agreed.
But she felt happy to stretch out her bare legs and tuck her red toenails under the blankets at the end of her bed.
The spider on her ceiling made perfect figure eights without exhaustion.
She imagined that he was there with his smile that turned up one side of his lips. For there would be much to explore if he was. On his shoulder, resting beneath the angel's mandolin. She could draw circles with her middle finger and then travel down the riverbed of his arm and come to rest at the vulnerable pooling patch of his wrist. She would raise that vulnerability to her lips and restore strength with tenderness. If she dared.
Oh, but where was this going?
She looked back up at the ceiling, and the spider was gone.
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