my blonde hair. his motorcycle. our white bed.

by Rachel Lynch in

He was from a lawless and wild past. We met at a speakeasie on the Lower East Side a few months ago. We created a fantasy place, lived in our world, then parted.

Last night, he came back. The heart is a lonely hunter, I suppose. The storm lit up the night sky, and I took the elevator downstairs to meet him. He arrived on his motorcycle in the rain. I knew why he was back, knew he was going to be back. It's because his bed is here, our bed. The sheets white like winter Our fingers meet, so cold, as he takes off his helmet in the pouring rain. I grab him by the hand and he follows up to the sixth floor behind me. I led him to our bed, perfectly made in the middle of the night. I promised no one else had been here.