The windows are black rectangles in the wall, the blinds closed for the night. The front door opens, and the security alarm beeps three times. A light flicks on before she comes in, covered in coats. I wait cross-legged, all busy listening. She comes up the stairs, says hello, then enters the washroom. Her coat she leaves on the railing of the stairs. The door closes, and I crawl over to the washroom door. Her jeans drop to her ankles—through a crack in the door, there’s the plop of denim. She’s barely dressed when the lights turn off and her pale legs disappear. I scoot back to the mattress before the door opens. There’s no talking as we go under the blankets. Our fingers graze each other, she breathes on my neck. We become all serious. Maybe we shake. Maybe we both work in the morning, and don’t have to. We can ignore it for one day—pretend this is a different planet.