—aka, crimes are two fucking faced, even for a con artist,
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INT— A HOTEL ROOM.
POSITANO, ITALY — MORNING AFTER.
SCENE I.
THERE ARE SUCH things as good body aches. These are the ones when you know you had a good time. You can feel your body, almost; tender and soft and touched in ways biblical women shout eureka for. Archimedes had nothing on the woman who had her first orgasm.
The type of tenderness where one could physically feel every inch of the soft, silky covers; the warmth of the morning gently caressing your face. When— if you stretched, you could almost hear every sound of your bones crack in pleasure.
Good body aches are holy.
It also meant you woke up late. Your body craving for the time you spent... not sleeping. Starved to rest.
And by you, I really meant me.
'But I don't stay for breakfast' my fucking left ass cheek.
The warmth of the beautiful morning— the sound of Positano, heartbeat of waves from the Tyrrhenian Sea and the soft, muted chatters of its people with its sharp honeysuckle and salt water smell — it felt almost goddamn offensive. Mocking.
Alright, steady, we can get out of this, I thought as I kept still and my breathing even to appear as if I hadn't woken up at all. Slowly, with microscopic precision, I moved my fingers around, trying to feel for another human body. When I found it cold and empty, I prayed a silent hope to whichever deity was in a good mood to forgive a small time repeated sinner who will most likely commit more sins, and cracked my eyelids by a slim breach.
And then I heard it— a god answering my small prayer. The sound of someone in the shower.
When I arched my neck and studied the room, I breathed out a sigh of relief. The room was bright in coral and muted mustard tones, a few lovely vases sporting a wild array of sweating flowers, and even my dress, proudly crumpled against a chair after it was tossed.
