My first thought was that I must have slept on my pillow funny because my neck was killing me. My next thought was that I must have slept through my alarm because I had not been this well rested in a long time. As the world started making sense around me, the pieces of last night started taking shape. One particular image, that of me bending Moneka Hart over a counter in the kitchen, stirred some familiar low-down feelings. Yet here we were, behind the bar. How many times had we had sex last night? How drunk had I really been? Something shifted to my left and I glanced down at Moneka. What a sight. She looked like a Greek statue, her nutmeg skin was glowing under the morning sun, like a goddess. Her body curved in all the right ways. I caught a tendril of hair that was tangled in my fingers and rubbed it with my thumb. Moneka’s hair. I started filling up with so much longing that I was shocked I had room for it all. It felt a bit like I was made to be an empty vessel, and I was meant to be filled with longing for her.
