Fantasy.

When I was in my early twenties, I lived with my boyfriend for a summer. He was a messy, duplicitous, and selfish man. It was one of those hot/hot relationships; we were always fighting but unable to stay apart. Our arguments made the diabetic girl across the hall cry.

But there was one night when he woke me, just barely, from deep sleep. He slowly and gently fucked me, gave me my orgasm, and then turned me back on my side to go back to sleep.

Neither then nor now do I have an explanation.

When I think of it though, my mind goes a step further these days.

I'm alone in my house, asleep. It's late. This man I know has a key and lets himself into the house. He slips off his shoes so he can tiptoe upstairs. Silently he slips into bed with me and wraps himself around me. Maybe I'm wearing a t-shirt, so his hand snakes underneath immediately to cup my breast. I'm quickly awake and glad he's here. Neither of us speak. I turn toward him, our bodies pressing together like a full-length kiss. His hands are in my hair. His lips are on my face. My arms are around him and I'm filled with selfish relief, and I have the metal image of my body finally relaxing into limp compliance. He's here so I can shed my roles as single parent, working professional, hassled ex-spouse. In fact, he'd kick those girls out of bed if they showed up here. Me, essential and unconcerned for anyone else, for any other moment. That's who I can be, who he expects. He makes love to me deftly and silently but for the ending chorus of release. Tangled around each other, we fall asleep. The lonely girl closes her eyes and drifts away. I rest easy.