But when she steps out of her underwear and walks through the open bathroom door, into the shower, and then directly into my arms, I remember nothing. There’s so much I still need to say to her–so much I remember wanting to ask her. Heat courses through me at a dangerous speed, my mind unable to grasp what my body clearly understands. She’s so beautiful I can hardly look at her I feel as if I’ve stepped into some strange dream, the debilitating fears that gripped me yesterday somehow forgotten in a moment. When she turns around, I’m struggling to breathe. She’s wearing a scrap of lace masquerading as underwear, and I watch, immobilized, as she bends over to yank off the last of the jeans, pulling her feet free.
She shimmies out of her jeans then, tugging them down over her hips. I went out to get us some coffee, but the line at breakfast was really long. “You were sound asleep this morning,” she says, glancing over her shoulder at me as she unbuttons her jeans. “I was afraid to wake you up. She’s facing away from me, but her back is bare. When she pulls her sweater over her head, I have a minor heart attack. I catch the doorframe to steady myself, watching as she rests the coffee mugs on a nearby table. She grins at me, then disappears into the outer room, and I start to follow her, nearly slipping in my haste. Ella is holding two mugs of coffee, dressed the way she often is: in a soft sweater and jeans, her dark brown hair so long now it skims her elbows. My relief is so acute I reach for the wall, bracing myself against the cold tile. I always feel her before I can see her, and when I see her–when she opens the bathroom door and stands there, smiling at me– I turn, heart racing, at the soft shutter of the bathroom door opening.
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