Saturday morning and Sarah is in the kitchen making breakfast.
Orlando is still in bed, dreaming of a man with pale eyes and careful, callused hands - a man whose stubble scrapes against the rise of Orlando's hip as he laps the delicate traces of sweat from the insides of his thighs, murmuring things with a voice graveled with sex and want.
When he wakes these things spill from Orlando's mind, gathering in tiny pools at his feet like liquid mercury, beautiful but elusive, slipping through his curious fingers like so many distant memories - fantasies from a life he never knew.
