The Cloud

25

“Nathaniel, you’re not serious.”

“Again.”

I open my barely cracked eyes and see a tacky white ceiling, cheap square paneling. Then hair. It’s light brown, long and loose, strands tickling my forehead.

Faith sits astride me. A sheet covers her shoulders. Behind her, on a bureau, sits a cheap television set, flat-panel, from the 1990s, a CRT. I’m in a hotel-no, motel.

“How about if we take a break and get you to the hospital?” the nymph asks.

I shake my head. No. I hate hospitals. “Am I dreaming? I was just dreaming.”

“You’re awake. And you’re having real, live, great sex. Apparently again.”