Mark’s asleep, curled up on his side and snoring. Justin rolls over gently, so not to wake him, and because his limbs feel like lead and his head is pounding.
Fuck high school reunions, honestly. Fuck cheap hotel rooms with droopy mattresses. And fuck margaritas for the way they unearth shit no matter how deeply it’s buried.
Justin studies the back of Mark’s head, his brown curls glossy in the dawn light. His neck looks graceful, tender, and Justin wants to touch the dark, downy whorl under Mark’s ear. Fuck broken hearts, he thinks, burrowing deeper under the thin sheet.
Cynthia Hamill 