There are areas where the unconscious excels in accuracy, and others where it embroiders prodigiously. My bedsheets, for example, were fresh and clean; obviously I had made every effort within my sphere of power to minimize moments of embarassment -- a true-to-life obsession. On the other hand, I was wearing some silky, lace-edged thing I most certainly do not own. He wore naught else but some long cotton trousers -- white pinstripes on a blue probably selected to match his eyes.

We fumbled our way into bed, self-conscious of our gracelessness; I have forgotten who got in first.

I touched his arm; it felt alarmingly firm. Unable to resist, I moved down and slid my palm against his, fingers slightly splayed; beneath them, I felt years of calluses, burns, and scars. He had the hands of a man who laboured. I could feel his heart pulse through them, a tattoo beating with the very heat and passion of life.

I guided it to curve around my shoulder. The rough, textured fingertips rested gently on the soft flesh of my forearm. It was artificial, but it was warmth, and security. I knew we would both honour ourselves.

We said good night.

For a long while, neither of us could bring ourselves to sleep. But, as I at last began to drift off, I could still feel him awake next to me. I curled closer as sleep enveloped me, and his arm squeezed around me, almost imperceptibly.