False Suspicion

I woke up to the sound of hurried footsteps. Light, quick footsteps—someone was running away. A suppressed giggle. I sat up. Slowly. The blanket slid down my body. I caught a glimpse of a blurry figure darting down the hallway—bare legs, a loose shirt, a fleeting grin, long hair flowing behind her like a victory banner.

Lisa.

What...? Why was she laughing?

I squinted into the soft light filtering through my curtains. Everything felt sluggish and heavy, as if my brain had been dipped in honey. My head felt like it was running with the brakes on.

Still half asleep, I tried to collect my thoughts. Had she been here? In my room? The sheets next to me felt warm, the blanket was rumpled. A second pillow lay slightly askew and was indented. I couldn't remember what had happened. If anything had happened.

Had she...? Had we...?

I frowned.

Then, a noise at the door. A figure appeared.

David.

He stopped—his foot hovering over the threshold. His eyes widened and scanned the room. He looked like someone entering a crime scene. His gaze fell on the bed—my bed—on the spot next to me. The imprints in the sheets. The air that smelled of Lisa's citrus shampoo.

His eyes searched for mine. We stared at each other.

Me: confused, sitting upright, with tousled hair and reddened skin.

Him: with clenched teeth, something flashing behind his eyes.

And then I suddenly realized—I wasn't wearing a nightgown. I was naked.

My arms shot up, pulling the blanket up to my collarbone and clinging to it as if that could change what he must be thinking.

“I—it's not what it looks like,” I began.

But he had already turned away. Now he stopped, turned halfway toward me. His mouth opened. Closed again without saying anything.

He nodded. As if he had received confirmation of something. Then he walked away.

I sat there frozen, clutching the blanket to my chest, and heat rose inside me like punishment for a crime I couldn't remember. What the hell had happened tonight?

And why did I wish something had happened?