After a while of staring at the ceiling, I roll over and stare at the window across the room. It doesn't make me any more sleepy than the ceiling did, so I close my eyes. If I lay very, very still and don't open my eyes, I can almost imagine your footsteps on the carpet, crossing the room. And if I concentrate hard enough (but not so hard that I break my suspension of belief), I can even feel you sliding into bed behind me. Your body is warm against mine, and I resist the urge to press back against you. Your arm drapes across my waist as you get comfortable, but once you've settled your hand reaches out to find mine underneath the covers. Our fingers interlace for a brief moment before you trace back up my arm to my neck, move my hair aside so you can brush the side of my neck with your lips. I shiver and let out a little gasp, proving that I was simply pretending to be asleep.Why had I been pretending, again? I can't remember, but it seems like it had been important. The kisses. The irony of a rainy day funeral was lost on Zoe Parker as she stared at the wooden box that held her deceased mother. Zoe observed the twenty or so people who decided to attend the burial ceremony. The small crowd creating a semi circle around the casket consisted of mostly people from her neighborhood smattered with a few of her mother’s old friends. All of them had known Sandra Parker during the better years of her life. All of them seemed to have abandoned her over the past three years as she slipped deeper and deeper into her own personal void. ‘Hypocrites,’ Zoe thought to herself. She could feel the bitterness and contentment building within her. The only emotion she had felt since she had finally left laying next to her just perished mother was hate. Being around this gathering of people was doing nothing to reverse that. That feeling dwelled within her now as she looked over the people who disregarded her mother when she needed them the most. Those people who did not find a.
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