he's noticed that sometimes her mind wanders. her body might be flushed and warm underneath his, her lips soft against his, her hands braced against his, but she is not there. he doesn't know where she goes. he doesn't know if she has reveries about days spent with her dead mother or thinks about how she's going to pay the bills or dwells on the meaning of life. eventually, he gets curious enough to ask, simply because it's a dangerous game, the business of not knowing things.
they are lying next to each other, beads of sweat clinging to them like she clings to him, nails embedded in his shoulder. her breath is still ragged, her leg swung over his hip, her nose pressed against the crook of his neck. usually, they are silent. they lay in utter solace and contemplate how much they've fucked up again and fall asleep in entangled, a mess of fingers and toes and soft blonde hair. it is some sort of sacred rule.
he breaks it.
"roxy."
she stirs, just barely, pushing herself closer to him, curling her toes against his thigh. she doesn't answer, but she has heard him. and so he continues.
"can i ask you something?"
again, she is silent, but he feels her nod against his chest. her hair is pressed underneath his chin and it scratches him as she moves her head. she wraps her arms around him more tightly. he does the same. he pauses for another moment before asking her. he breathes deeply, cheap cherry perfume and faint traces of vanilla lotion hitting him. she has smelled like this since they were children. nothing is more comforting.
"what do you think about?"
he listens intently, but her only reply is a sharp sigh. she pulls away from him, lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling. the covers hide everything below her collarbone, which is sharp and prominent and beautiful. he stays on his side, watching her shallow breaths, her slow, lazy blinks, the twitch of her cheeks as she opens her mouth to speak. she says it, as if it is obvious, as if he has asked her the dumbest question in the world.
"you."
he finds this ironic, because all he thinks of is her.