The room upgrade did nothing— Wocky still sprawls out on the bed. It's just in his nature to take up space.
He's a light sleeper, so slipping out of bed unnoticed is refreshingly challenging. She times her movements with the rise and fall of his chest, gently prying his hand from her torso and slinking away without so much as making the bedsprings squeak.
It's so easy to be proud of what she can't share with anyone else. No wonder her boss thinks she's a floozy.
She peels off her stockings, torn and left to tangle around one leg. The chafe of the material would be much too noisy. Manoeuvring the room is done by tiptoe; she imagines herself a ballerina, in a world where they don't have to train their bodies from girlhood.
Switching to hotel rooms was her idea. Suggested under the pretense of making things more exciting, it was only incidentally useful in making her feel less like an animal caged in a zoo. Having to watch Wocky get fired up over sneaking past his parents was a paltry sum to pay in exchange.
The lack of air-con is really fucking annoying, though. She can feel his sweat cling through the thin fabric of her negligee— frankly, she wants to tear it off and set it on fire.
Gentle lover, her ass. He couldn't even be bothered to cut his nails.
She digs through her handbag for a cigarette and a light. The light of the balcony streams in before her, inviting her heavy body out with the promise of cool air on its skin. Careful to block the stream from Wocky's face, she watches her shadow stretch and distort until she's made it past the threshold.
Having to match his enthusiasm is the worst part every time. Like she's still 16, fooling around with stars in her eyes, and not an adult woman with a degree to pay off. She deserves a puff or ten for being able to return his anguished declarations of love before he started pawing at her like he was trying to twist parts off of a doll.
The neverending dirge of traffic plays out beneath her. The air outside is still humid and sticky, because L.A. is the worst city in the world. She closes her eyes and breathes out a fat puff of smoke, dreaming of clean air and soft, green grass giving way under her bare feet.
Not yet. She recalls the staccato beats of her fiancé's heart where she'd pressed her hand against it. Almost, just not yet. The voice of her mother scolds in her head, a psychopomp: Good things come to those who wait.