As I lower her onto the bed in the master bedroom, she blinks sleepily up at me. Her eyelids are heavy. Her cheeks are flushed. Her hair spills over the pillow, a mess of silky dark tresses I’d like to comb my fingers through—no. Christ. What am I thinking? She’d bite them off. Gazing up at me, she mumbles, “I want to tell you something, but I’m not talking to you. G’night, gangster.” Then she rolls over onto her side and promptly falls back asleep.
