You asked how the writing was going…
So she let him in, and he walked behind her, his footfalls on the worn treads of the stairs echoing hers as they climbed the narrow spiral to her door, a call and response like prayer. His hand on her shoulder as she found her key, his head hung low to the swath of skin exposed at the back of her neck, her hair pulled forward over one shoulder. They slipped inside and out of their clothes, his mouth finding hers, a question that begged to be answered, and she responded eagerly.
The automatic light on the landing clicked off, dropping the stairwell into darkness, a rich, heavy quiet that filtered down the banisters and sunk against the cold stone on the ground floor.
…And as quietly as she’d told him to come, she told him now to go. The city outside was kicking to life, the pink sky settling between the houses and avenues, the silence abating as the first windows became illuminated, rectangles of yellow breaking the surface of the dawn, picture frames of people starting their day. He pulled on his coat and was gone. The air shifted with his absence, adjusting to the lack of him, more noticeable to her than the steady, low breath against her shoulder had been as he’d slept.
It’s not new and it’s far from perfect or polished, but I wanted to share this little passage with you, mostly to keep myself accountable and to prove that all of the deep, angsty expositing I do is actually in pursuit of something real. I’m doing it. I’m writing this book.