Hand on my girlfriend’s thigh as she drove me to my office, sitting at an angle so I could stare at her. Her skin was flushed and her brow was scrunched. Nikki was deep in a rambling story about rivalry at her job. One of those stories women told that could’ve been wrapped up fifteen minutes ago, but she had to tell it circuitously, with every detail and each side conversation. I listened, though, because it was her, and I was so fucking drunk on Nikki: the way she looked when she was asleep or just humming to herself in the kitchen or on her knees in front of me. And her skin. Her smile. Her pussy. Her laugh. My name on her lips. Fuck it; it was everything. I wasn’t religious at all, but I could’ve worship her. I was worshiping her. She was like this, too. If she hadn’t been driving, her hand would’ve been linked with mine, like always. We’d been official for a few weeks and maybe we wouldn’t be this way forever but, right now, I think we’d crawl up inside each other if we could.
