She used to make her bed before he came over to make love, meticulously tucking in sheet corners and gingerly fluffing pillows. Like digging her own grave, she was caught up in brief moments of presentiment, each turn of the sheet releasing a bit of fantasy. Futility breeding anticipation.
And sometimes they would make love on the grand Oriental rug she's had since college or in an old chair that used to belong to her writing professor. But when he would leave, she would shower herself squeaky clean, like a child with a rubber duck bath toy, and slide between the cool sheets and dream the dreams of angels.
And sometimes they wouldn't make love at all, but instead argue with spit and stuttering and breaking glass. Those nights, she wouldn't even turn down the bed before climbing on top, pulling her knees to her chest and staring blurrily into the leftover candlelight.