At My Most Beautiful
Most evenings, Stacy went over case notes alone at the kitchen table, a cup of herbal tea nearby, before finally settling into bed with a trashy mystery novel.
Several hours later, the book would be lifted from her limp hands and placed on the bedside table; the light would be switched off and the bed would sink with a familiar weight. She kept her eyes closed, feigning sleep, as his chilly fingers ran through her hair and his lips pressed against the back of her head.
Then, in the quiet of the darkened bedroom, he would whisper, "I love you."