Remember, we were lying in bed with the morning sun cracking the windows and rousing us out of a hungover stupor?
I didn’t want to see the dawn. The heat haze.
‘I hate the summer.’
‘Yeah. But at least it brings out the bumblebees,’ you said, and buzzed your hand over my hips, let it drift down my belly so the hair on your arm tickled.
You had tan-stripes where your watch was, your T-shirt, your wedding ring. You turned me over to bury yourself between my legs, stuck out your tongue to find the nectar and suck, suck, suck.