by Kristen Tsetsi
I tug on my jeans, cover up with my bra. He is asleep before I put on my socks, naked on the couch with one bent leg propped against the back, the other flat and angled open. Even drunk, most people would be self-conscious. Most would have pulled something on first thing. Were he anyone else, I would be embarrassed for him, would find a light blanket, or a robe or a bath towel, to drape over him. I sit on the floor and run my fingers over his body, the tissue-soft skin of his inner thigh, the sparse hair curls on his lower abdomen, the dark hollow where neck pools into collar bone, and I wonder if I could ever be comfortable enough, trusting enough, to sleep this way, watched, the way I am watching him.
Kristen Tsetsi is the author of Homefront and co-edits Tuesday Shorts.