I woke in the late afternoon to yellow lamplight and the mottled shadows of rain on the walls. There were coffee mugs and empty bowls with leftover noodles stacked up neatly at his bedside, and I could hear the sounds of his fingers on the keyboard echoing the light tapping of water hitting the windowpanes.
If I breathed in slowly enough, I could still smell cigarettes and cologne until my nostrils confused the two into a bittersweet smoke, dissolving slowly into my senses until I could sense it no more.
His typing stopped. He closed the textbook on his lap, put it atop his printer, and walked over to his bed.
Drowsily, I nodded.
He leaned forward and crossed his arms atop his bedspread. His black-framed glasses were perched precariously on the bridge of his nose.
"It's nearly 3:30," he said.
"I know. Want me to go?"
"No," He looked upwards at me, then away, "I mean, wait until it stops raining at least?"
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A. Note: The morning after we slept together, but didn't sleep together.