You're laying there, hardly breathing. Every now and then, when the dioxide has built up, you let out a small, laden sigh. The ceiling has 18 small circular marks on it. The digital clock by your bedside table is protesting 5.05am in garish red. Soon it will change its stance to 5.06am. 7 trucks have passed your window. It's letting in air a little too cool for comfort but you have grown accustomed to the unpleasant shiver that ripples through your muscles every few minutes. Your furrowed brow and distant stare up into those pale marks above you draw you in like constellations.

Your mind, whirring with every thought of the universe somehow manages to focus on nothing. As if in defence you have shut down, unable to even take off your shoes.

One arm is propped under your head, the modest and round muscle of your bicep pillowing your tired head. The other lays across your stomach where the pad of your index finger slowly rubs back and forth against the knuckle of your thumb.

More movement in the house stirs you. A couple laughing perhaps. You're unsure. There are 3 of them in the apartment. Your lover is unrest.

Your ma always used to say 'don't do something unless you can handle the consequences'. Oh, mom...

You should call her more.

Another deep, slow and quiet sigh. It moves your stomach, hot beneath your palm; up and then down. You feel its firmness hidden somewhere beneath you. You recall her words. With a little effort you could be something extraordinary. But effort lusts after exposure. You have wanted so desperately to make something of yourself for too long.

You tilt your head back in self-admonishment, tossing your arm onto the empty mattress. The enemy is inner me. Well done, fucking Tolstoy.

You squeeze your eyes closed and your face tenses. You turn your head towards the door.

Jess.

You bite down on your lower lip, your mouth puckering with the effort.

You think back to the early hours of the morning- no- even earlier. Night, maybe.

Don't lock me in here with her, you think. Please don't incarcerate us with no way of avoiding this too-complex tension. You've done well to regain your composure over the last few months- to make an invisible joke of your attraction; an unspoken game. "Kiss, Kiss, Kiss," they yell, naively. You remember asking yourself how she could be so cool about it- and feeling disappointed when she flippantly suggested you just get on with it, like it was nothing. Like it wasn't awkward and strange and unfair.

You feel like a teenager in all the negative senses the word can possess. Exposed, insecure, embarrassed. Embarrassed. Always embarrassed. Of your job, of your life, of your mood, your room. Your body. You have so much power and strength inside you. Such masculinity and depth foiled by your own, fragile, sad ego. Why can you never show her that? Or at least, anybody, somebody else. You wonder if she sees it at all, sees you, your truthmasked clumsily like a light behind a wall.

She must know now. You close your eyes and relive the heat of her breasts and taut stomach against your chest. Your entire torso seems to throb as you remember half lifting her, almost pinning her to the wall behind. But she had wrapped her arms around you, hadn't she... almost expectantly. Breath shaking with adrenaline and arousal, you instinctively (yes, it was nothing but instinct) placed your thigh between her own trembling legs, your foreheads pressing together in such telling intimacy. Her hands are on your neck, your hips. One more, your body had begged. No please, just another, your heart had followed. Her lips pressed back into yours, gratefully; once, twice, again. You wouldn't look at her as you left. What would you have seen? It's unimportant.

'I meant something like that.'

You hold in the frustration as you close your door, less forcibly than you would have predicted.

The memory ends, fluttering to nothing like a projectionist's tape. You had been so steady, your movements deft and powerful: gentle but expressive. A moment unplanned but over-imagined. Not like this. Natural.

Your features soften as you look back up to the ceiling. It's the one thing in a long time you've done right. Your timing, your stealth, your power. You don't feel an apology looming in your throat, nor awkwardness or angst. At least not yet. It's creeping like a horizon, hot orange, but you want to hold onto this evening. Unsure how to proceed.

Tomorrow will be the same as any other day because for you, nothing has changed. Not the the loyalty or admiration, the respect, attraction, affection or intrigue. The friendship. The only thing that seems to have altered is your slow and steady sense of self-respect, of appreciation for acting, for once, in the moment, for not getting in your own way and for being the Nicholas Miller you finally wanted to be. If only for a moment.

It appears you are more attracted to her that you could ever have imagined; it lingers in simultaneous dimensions. Kept separate and distinct, these layers of magnetism seem to have somehow aligned but you don't really care. Guilt will come soon. Regret perhaps. You remember the hot tip her her velvet tongue. Your insides flurry.

You close your eyes and over time, begin to drift away, the swollen kiss of her mouth hovering somewhere above your own. I meant something like that.