Her morning after

Not so much a follow-up, but a continuation—from the woman’s perspective/voice—of http://aloneontheisle.blogspot.com/2008/09/into-black.html and http://aloneontheisle.blogspot.com/2008/11/his-morning-after.html. As you can tell, I do not write a woman’s voice much, so I welcome any and all pointers and/or criticisms.

The months of lingering, of semi-intellectual chatter and of making myself ever-present, finally paid off, so why am I riddled with doubt? Why can’t I just revel in my victory, regardless of its ultimate outcome? The fact is that he chose me, not the forty-something’s jockeying relentlessly for his attention, not the other nymphish coeds lusting after his every move and not his wife, who neglects his very presence. He asked me to join him at the table, not the other way around. I think he cares for me, maybe; it wasn’t just my body he wanted to warm him on this winter night, was it? I am better than that, I have everything to offer him in this world, and I am not that kind of woman, I don’t do this; or at least I didn’t. . . . God, he has been awake forever, he is probably wishing that it were somebody else laying next him. Fuck that, I am going to feign sleep for as long as it takes for him to tip his hand—if he gets up in a silent attempt to slip out of this room and back into the life he was so desperately complaining about six hours ago, then I know what I am; but if he puts his head down for just a moment, then he is mine. Please, just rest your head on my shoulder, please. . . .