The two lovers recline, exhausted, bodies entwined, but distant.
He clears his throat, says, “That was great. You’re really something, ya know?”
She arches her back, moves her leg off his. Whispers, “You too.” She doesn’t mean it. Now is not the time to get into it. She says, “I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be here,” he says, smiling. Pats her on the butt as she stands up.
In the bathroom, she stares into the mirror above the sink. She thinks, my god, how you’ve changed. But how? It’s not the lines or the recent Key West tan. It’s not her marble green eyes which have gotten weaker, and remain unchecked. It’s not the growth pattern of her scant facial hairs.
It’s that she’s no longer seeking a method of appeasing her loneliness. It eats at her from the inside out. It has become her.