Daydreaming

Every time Clay closed his eyes, he could see her, feel her. The best part of waking up was that first indrawn breath when he could smell the lingering traces of her perfume on the pillow beside his. He’d wait just inside the door, checking his watch every two seconds, eager for her to come home, and as soon as she was through the door he’d slam it shut, press her against it and kiss her breathless.

She’d laugh softly into the kiss and run her fingers through his hair, cradle him close, and he would smile. He loved the moment of completion he felt as soon as she was in his arms, because while she was gone he was only half a self, broken and faded, but as soon as she was with him he was himself again, and he could breathe.

“I love you,” he would whisper in her ear, and she’d whisper it right back.

He’d lean down and nip playfully at her collarbone, dart sly fingers at the buttons on her blouse, and she’d bat his hands away, giggle.

“If you’re going to be like that, we need a bed,” she’d said, and he’d pull back, tug her by the wrist, lead her back toward the bedroom. They’d tumble onto the sheets, a twining of limbs and a meeting of mouths, and --

A shoe connected sharply with his ankle.

Dan shot him a look.

Bob arched an eyebrow.

Scott made a rude gesture below Carolyn’s eye-level to imply that he knew precisely what Clay had been thinking about.

Carolyn cleared her throat pointedly. “If you want to pass your next geography test, you need to know this,” she said.

Clay ducked his head, penitent.

Later, when Shelley had relieved Carolyn of her schoolmistress duties, Dan said,

“You really have to stop spacing out like that. It’s gonna show in your grades, and Dad will get mad.”

Clay was quite sure that his father would be the least of his problems if the others knew what he day-dreamed about.

(344 words)