He wakes up early on a Wednesday morning in Elijah's bed again. With one hand in front of his face, he squints into the light that slips through the cracks of his fingers. The curtains to the windows along the far wall are still open from the previous evening and allow in too much of the early morning sun. He mutters quietly to himself as he throws the covers off to draw them, only to crawl back into bed with a soft huff.
The sheets are slightly damp from sweat left by the sweltering heat of the night; when he draws one of the pillows under his arm, the wine colored cotton feels clammy against his skin. He turns over once-then twice-and then turns to face the unused side of the bed; his hand creeps over to cold pillowcase. The apartment is so quiet around him; he can hear the friction it causes against his rough fingertips.
He pauses. Despite his sweat all over the linens, he can still smell him here. Despite the so many thousands of miles and entire country that separates them, Elijah lingers among the folds of his own bed. He still thinks Elijah's in the bathroom every time the showerhead leaks. I am haunted, he thinks, turning onto his back. Haunted by a man who still lives here. He laughs quietly to himself and sits up, easing his back against the headboard. His skin sticks with the contact. The digital alarm clock he gave Elijah for his twentieth birthday sits on the nightstand and tells him that it is almost eight thirty; he needs to get up and get dressed soon anyway. His agent yelled at him just yesterday on the telephone; it's finally time to get him some work.
On his way out to his own bedroom down the hall, he flips on Elijah's stereo. He turns the dial all the way up to 10, to keep himself from hearing his own feet upon the floor. It muffles the sound of his waiting and his longing, and it manages to distract him from his loneliness until half past nine.
