When she woke, she looked around: dazed, momentarily, by not only by the sunlight streaming through the unfamiliar window, but the hazily returning memory of the night before. Her companion, sprawled beside her on the bed, shifted and murmured, and threw an arm over her. Gently, she slid her feet to the floor and picked her way down the hall. “Picked” because the floor was strewn with clothing — hers and, she had to assume, his — and other detritus of their debauch. She hunted for aspirin, half-afraid to open the bathroom cabinet for fear of what she might find (prescription or otherwise). The search proving fruitless, she padded further along to the kitchen and found the bottle. She picked the cleanest-looking glass and let the water run until it was ice cold.

Walking back down the hallway, last night suddenly returned to her and she found herself grinning. She wondered if they could possibly repeat it, or come close, and then reminded herself that trying too hard ruins everything. Still grinning, she slipped back into bed and rolled onto her side, spooning against him comfortably and easily. She drifted back to sleep.

She woke with a start: he wasn’t in the bed, but standing beside it, beside her, running his hands through his hair and shouting at her.

“What?” she said. “Hold on, slow down. I’m right here, you don’t have to shout. Though I mean,” she added slyly, sotto voce, “I guess we did plenty of that last night.”

“I said,” was the slow and deliberate reply, “‘Who the hell are you?’”