Hot fudge ain't got nothin' on you.

Nearly 2am. I imagine you there. You are alone. The day was long, and you'd be exhausted--if only you could wind down. You can't, of course, and all the wine in the world can't help you.

There you are, in my mind: itchy, restless. Your bed is just through that door, but it's not even worth an attempt to lie down. You pace, untuck your shirt, nibble on your fingernails. You can't get my words out of your head.

I close my eyes and imagine your fingers. Then, other parts of you. Your forearms, as they cross and uncross in front of you. Your hand, as you rub the back of your neck.

You toss yourself on the sofa, hunched forward. That doesn't work. You throw yourself back, look at the ceiling. No answers there. Your eyelids flutter closed, the darkness letting you better imagine the scene I have set for you.

I wonder if the idea flashed across your mind, so quickly as to be a blur--but if it had been there nonetheless. To follow me into the bathroom. That bathroom--the bathroom with the window, the bathroom with the view. The one I had to steal away to, to stare into the mirror at my own face until I could stop seeing yours; to grip the sides of the sink until I could grip my own impulses. The ones that told me to follow you. Did you want me to follow you?

But that moment is nothing but a memory. In my mind. And now in yours. You open your eyes and you are still on the sofa. But now you are biting your lip. I am not there.

I close my eyes and imagine your fingers. Then, other parts of you.

Your fingers, on other parts of you.

Are you doing what I imagine you're doing?