Sunday

The sun streamed into the open blinds, and I curse under my breath that I fell asleep before closing them properly last night.

He touched my side, between my underwear and upper thigh, and I shivered. I knew what this would lead to. He positioned himself over me and started grinding. It wasn't bad, but it was also half eight in the morning and I couldn't be bothered doing more than laying there - occasionally putting my arms around him to pull the short hairs on the back of his neck like I know he likes.

We were so far into our relationship that he no longer asked. He just acted until I would tell him to stop. It was easier if I never did. The day would go smoother.

He continued to grind on me, and then slowly unbuttoned my pyjama top and grabbed a fistful of breast in one hand - like they were his.

There was a thin line between the wall and the ceiling where the last tenant had missed repainting the room. Maybe I should use the paint we found in the cupboard to patch that up. Is that my job though? How could they not have noticed that? I could do a better job, and the most I've ever painted is a self portrait in art class, where the portrait was me reimagined as a can of cream of chicken soup. 

He rolled me over. 

Now, all I could see was the pilling starting to occur on the sheet below me. At least it was soft. And at least I didn't have to look at him anymore. 

Men are simple creatures: a handful of boob, morning sex, and food in the fridge. If men were simple, did that automatically make me complicated? 

I wanted to be simple too.