After shifting her weight on the bed, Gabrielle gave herself a few minutes to get used to the darkness. By the time she could see, she noted that the man was still asleep, and her lingerie was nothing but a liquid black puddle in a corner of the room. He had called her a few hours ago; she had responded. Nothing serious, and nothing long-lasting — it's not him, of course, and she knows it. There has always been a creeping, crawling sensation that being touched by other hands wasn't right; as a teen, she'd attributed that niggling sense to a strict upbringing and religious parents. She thought it was the thrill of acting out. The rush of something new.

But the feeling had only blossomed and intensified as she got older, and each boyfriend felt like an increasing sense of betrayal.

With memories (which weren't hers) stinging in her mind, she tiptoed around the room, tucking short dark hair behind one ear. He rolled over, which made her freeze. And for a moment, she felt something close to remorse, at the thought that this didn't mean waking up together and shared breakfasts and seeing him off to the courthouse with a kiss—

—But no. He's not here. He was never here. What the fuck, Gabrielle.

Now a little irritated — more at her own goddamn maudlin attitude, rather than any sense of divine injustice — she redid the clasps on her bra and sidled back into her clothes. After finding her cell phone in the pile of pillows on the floor, Gaby let herself out of the apartment. It was the wrong side of morning, but she might as well see what diners were open.