His legs used to dangle off the end of the bed, but he still came over and slept in my bed despite that. His legs probably dangled off the end of every bed he ever slept on, which is fine, and as I lie here, slightly avoiding the sunshine as it filters in through the cracks that have not been sealed up properly, it occurs to me that if he weren’t here, I wouldn’t be lying here, avoiding so many things all at once. Although, if he weren’t here, where would he be instead? I try not to admit that I don’t even really care where he would be – so long as I weren’t wasting this moment between his arms, like some simmering bus stop beneath the sun, constantly checking my phone and wondering when will the bus finally arrive? So I can get on and start going somewhere, instead of just standing here and waiting for something else to happen. This is the exact moment of my commute from the beautiful moments before I was here, into the beautiful moments when I will be somewhere else, anywhere else that isn’t with him right now. He is the fucking dial up connection of all my Internet emotions, and I wish things were faster, and I could fast forward through the opening credits and watch the sultry, salted-up sex scenes already. But he doesn’t know that, because I lie here with all my patience and all my feigned smiles and all my nice things that I think to say before he leaves and I can be alone.