It bothers her, as it should, that he can’t be trusted when the lights are on.

Why does she find this in each man she loves? Is there something within her that encourages dishonesty? Is it a physical attribute or a personality trait? Can she will it away, or cut it out with surgery? She wants to give it a name because that always helps, but what name should it be?

So many questions. She’s like that with everything when the lights are on, which is why she reaches over, now, and turns the switch.

He’s immediately at her side, warmer than the room. He feels good, he smells good, he is good. What isn’t visible is harmless; what isn’t forgotten is forgiven. She likes the curve of his shoulder, the crook of his smile, the confidence of his grip. She reaches down and parts her lips for him, her slit blooming with anticipation. And as she feels his heart beating through his tongue, she quietly curses the coming day, and every ray of sunshine that announces it.