I tried to ignore the unease by flopping onto the small two-seater sofa in front of the TV. The remote felt foreign in my hand. I told myself I wasn't waiting for him, just passing time. But every so often, I'd glance at the door, listening for the sound of his keycard. Maybe it was the alcohol still in my system, but the urge to see him—just to talk, or maybe to sit in silence—gnawed at me stronger with each passing minute.
Eventually, exhaustion won out. My eyelids grew heavy, and I dozed off curled on the sofa, the muted glow of the TV flickering across the room. I dreamed in snatches—laughter in a crowd, the brush of fingertips at my shoulder. When I woke again, the clock on the nightstand read just after midnight.
