The Stripped Tangle
by Aaron Jungjohann

It won't happen then, afterwords when he's still on his back and she's draped over him with her sweat in his eyes. And it will not start when the lights come on and she's looking for her cellphone in the stripped tangle. She'll catch him watching and will pose a bit too coyly, never guessing at the appeal of her being casually nude. She will check the time, turn off the lamp and come back to bed. Press her back against him and pull his arm over her shoulder.

That's when it will begin.

That panic that builds up as her breathing slows: something wrong. He tucks his arm under hers, lets it rest for a moment before shifting it away again, searching for a familiar place he knows isn't there. In the dark, every curve of her body is a distortion, every swell a freakish break from the model. Her hair shouldn't be in his face either but it is, full of wax and smelling the way he suspects fake fruit might but doesn't. He turns his head to stare a long time at an unfamiliar ceiling, lets his eyes adjust to the dark but not to her. When she's fallen asleep, he pulls away and pretends to be alone, hoping it will be easier than pretending to be with the woman sleeping miles away in the bed they usually share.