I sit curled against the side of the futon, the sharpness of the railing softened by several pillows. My eyes roam around the room, stopping at the little points of familiarity.
The fountain.
The saxaphone.
The table and candles, pillows, glass balls, oil lamps and artwork.
It’s all so familiar.
He sits, fingers playing across the powerbook, reading mail as he discusses company business on the phone. Silver glints off pale skin, offset by black clothes. Occasionally he glances my way and smiles.
He is so familiar.