Recall

I wake up the same way I have for the last three months, on the mornings I was lucky enough to get any sleep at all the night before. With a memory. Not a dream —I don’t remember my dreams anymore— but a recollection of how my days used to start so often.

When she was still here.

She always woke up first. She called it her superpower. And when I finally did, it was usually with her name on my tongue, escaping my throat on a morning-hazy sigh.

Her name. Rebecca. I would never be able to see or say or hear that word in the same way I used to ever again. It had changed, evolved into something else entirely.

Her name had brought me so much hope and happiness once. Not all that long ago, in fact. It had been associated with light and laughter and mind-bending orgasms, the kind you can only have when love is involved.

And now it meant death.

Her name was now synonymous with cancer. There would never be any changing that from the moment she passed and the machines next to her hospital bed stopped beeping.

I lay on my side, blinking slowly. Watching the dust motes change colors as they dance upon the yellow glow through the apartment window. As I stare, I watch a butterfly, big and orange and black, tap against the glass.

I can’t help smile smile when I see it. Rebecca’s favorite, right there. Telling me good morning.

I feel the bed shift behind me and I freeze, the breath held in my lungs, convinced someone has snuck into my home and invaded my bedroom. But then I smell coconut and lavender, my nostrils flaring with the familiar scent, and I immediately relax. I am —was— never more comfortable than when I was in her presence, either in this bedroom or in public.

Still, my chest tightens at the thought. The immeasurable ache that inevitably tags along with loss.

My eyes sting and I can feel the pressure behind them, threatening more tears that I barely rationalize I can still cry, and a knot materializes in my throat. It’s so mundane at this point that I don’t try to fight it; my mornings are no longer the same. This is the new normal.

But the discomfort in my body suddenly vanishes when I feel her hand at the small of my back, then up along my hip, along my side, and over my front to cover my right breast. My eyes flutter closed as she palms my nipple, squeezing me softly, tenderly, and I release a long sigh like I haven’t exhaled in months.

Maybe I haven’t. Not really.

The tightness dissipates and I start breathing, albeit with a subtle shutter, as she cups my breast, squeezes and pulls at me, and her thumb teases my hardening nipple, before her hand makes its way to my other breast and follows the same schedule.

Rebecca’s lips, that familiar warmth, are at my neck and I shutter when she kisses along my flesh. She always knew exactly where to touch, where to caress, where to tease. I never had to tell her, even though she asked. She just knew. Me. My body.

My hips shift back and I moan for her.

She made mornings perfect.

Her fingers trace down my stomach. Over my belly button. My body responds like it always did: more, please. Please. I lean to my right and I give her more of me, exposing the topography of my body to her spelunking fingers.

Her hand travels south, and south, and then I feel her fingers in the faint strip of pubic hair and my hips rise to the occasion. Her hand cups my warmth between my legs, follows my curve, and her fingertips rub my moistening lips slowly. And then she’s in the space between, teasing me like no one else ever could, and I moan her name again.

My legs open for her like they always did.

With closed eyes her fingers spread me open, exposing my interior to the bedroom, pulling the lips apart that are wet for her, the memory of her. She rubs my clit and my hips buck towards the sensation, demanding more, always wanting more. And then she’s inside me and her fingers trace down my walls, following the curve again, until her fingers curve upwards and she finds that spot I love so much, and she knows so well.

My back arches. I’m no longer rational thought. There’s only her touch and her name on my tongue. I say it again and again, louder, and louder, heavier, and then my body shudders from the inside out. I am the beach and she is the tidal wave, crashing into me in the best way possible.

I breathe and open my eyes. I’m alone again, but differently. My fingers are wet.

I know I’ll always have her.

Forever. In my memories.