Chapter 7: The Morning After
The scent of lavender and sex still hung in the air, a heady mix that Gloria breathed in as consciousness returned. She felt the warm, solid weight of Bob’s arm draped across her waist, his steady breath against her shoulder. Morning light cut through the gap in the blinds, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets and the youthful curve of his sleeping back.
She lay perfectly still, savoring it. The memory of the night was a physical echo in her muscles—a pleasant soreness, a hum in her blood. Then the digital clock on her nightstand blared to life: 7:03 AM. The salon opened at nine.
She shifted carefully, sliding out from under his arm. He made a soft, grumbling sound in his sleep but didn’t wake. Gloria pulled on her robe and padded quietly to the kitchen, her body feeling wonderfully used, every step a reminder.
The kitchen was silent, sunlit. And empty.
On the counter, propped against the coffee machine, was a sheet of notebook paper. Bob’s handwriting was neat, blocky, like a kid trying hard.
Gloria,
Didn’t want to wake you. You looked peaceful. I used your shower (hope that’s okay, I left it clean). Coffee is set to brew at 7:30.
I wasn’t sure how it would be received if we showed up together. Gossip travels fast here, right? Didn’t want to make anything weird for you. I’ll just meet you at the salon like normal.
Thanks for last night. For everything.
- Bob
She read it twice. A sharp, sweet ache pierced her chest. So careful. So damn considerate. He’d thought about her reputation, about the town’s prying eyes, while she’d been lost in the feel of him. It was a maturity her own ex-husband had never possessed. She traced the letters with her thumb, then folded the note and tucked it into her robe pocket.
Right on time, the coffee machine sputtered to life, filling the kitchen with its rich, familiar smell. She poured a mug, the heat seeping into her palms.
Getting ready was a new experience. Her legs were unsteady, a deep-set tremor in her thighs that made applying eyeliner a comic challenge. But beneath the physical fatigue was a current of pure, giddy energy. Endorphins sang in her veins. She caught herself smiling at nothing in the bathroom mirror, her eyes brighter, her skin flushed. She looked… revitalized.
At the salon, the bell over the door jingled its familiar tune. She was ten minutes early, but Cherise, her head stylist, was already there, wiping down stations.
“Well, look at you,” Cherise drawled, not looking up from her cleaning. “You’re practically glowing. What’d you do, get a vitamin B shot?”
Gloria busied herself with the appointment book, her back to Cherise. “Something like that. New spin class. My trainer’s trying to kill me, I swear.”
“Spin class,” Cherise repeated, a skeptical lilt in her voice. She finally glanced over. “Must be some class. You’ve got a whole… spring in your step.”
“Endorphins,” Gloria said, waving a dismissive hand, the lie smooth and easy on her tongue. “Terrible, painful, wonderful endorphins.”
The door chimed again. Bob stood in the doorway, the morning sun haloing his freshly washed hair. He met her eyes across the room—a quick, electric connection—then looked down, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Morning,” he said, his voice softer than usual.
“Morning, Bob,” Gloria replied, her own tone professionally warm, giving nothing away to Cherise’s keen ears. “The mop bucket’s in the back. Let’s get this place shining.”
He nodded, a ghost of a smile touching his lips, and moved past her. As he did, his shoulder lightly brushed hers. A silent, secret punctuation to the note, to the night, to the new and terrifyingly wonderful rhythm now beating between them.