"Coffee or tea?" Dree is standing in my kitchen. Her yellow sundress is wrinkled. The ruffle at the hemline form an unruly wave, making the dress look even shorter than it is. Her hair is loosely braided into two pigtails. The heavy makeup she wore last night has been washed off. Her skin-a shade darker than cream-looks fresh.

She is holding two canisters in her hands. Instant coffee and darjeeling tea.

"Why don't we just go to brunch? I need food more than caffeine." I watch her as she puts the cans back into the cupboard. She is wearing one of my perfumes, a heady blend of citrus and green mango. It is a perfect summer scent, recalling lazy, margarita-filled nights spent lounging underneath a canopy of leaves. I had bought the perfume for myself as an early birthday present two years ago. I wear it only on special occasions. Of course it is the one Dree would pick out of my medicine cabinet. She likes it because the bottle says Hermès.

"You did a really funny thing this morning." She drinks from a glass of water on the counter. "You came into the living room, asked if I was cold, and then came back with a blanket. I said I wasn't cold, but you just threw it me. And then you went back to sleep!"

I see that her hair is still damp. Two faint water spots have formed on her dress where the tip of her pigtails touch the fabric. I did wake up in the morning. I had come into the kitchen and thought about what her mouth would taste like after so much gin. I imagined her lips would have been chapped from not drinking enough water, her skin would look like fine rice paper, and she would smell like the night and her sweat would be sweet on my tongue. I got as far as the couch, hoping she was still asleep, but she saw me.

Her toes are painted orange. Laying on the couch, her feet slid out from under the blankets, moving toward me like the tentacles of a snail, slow and unsteady. Ten little dots of orange on pale cream cruising on the barren dessert of my beige couch. I wanted to clasp my hands around her ankles and pull myself toward her. But it could not have stopped there. I would have had to kiss her, starting from the ankles, toward the knees, then the smooth patches of skin inside of her thighs. I know she doesn't shave. I would have had to take off her panties, her dress, and lay her on the edge of the couch while I knelt and put my lips to her cunt.

Instead I asked if she was cold. I took the blanket off my bed and put it on top of her. When I was back in my room, I heard her say "good night." I took off my t-shirt and shorts. I laid in bed naked, touching myself, hoping she would walk in with the blanket and see me. It was useless. I couldn't make myself come and she never came in.

"Where do you want to go for brunch?" She has put her cardigan back on. The weather had changed over night. The sun comes in and out of hiding from behind the clouds. It looks chilly outside. My landlord had turned off the heat last weekend, when the thermometer read sixty degrees. Dree, wearing my perfume, is the only warm thing in this apartment right now.

"What about that new deli on Hoyt? Have you been yet?" It always happens this way, every time she spends the night on my couch. I am afraid that if I touched her I wouldn't be able to stop. So I keep my distance.

"Yeah. I love their brisket. Great idea V.!" She is smiling again. Last night's unhappiness and confusion already chased away by whatever fairies she summons for such dirty tricks. "Jason texted me this morning. I think I'll stop by to talk to him today. I really do like him."

"Of course you do."

T. J. Clarke is the pen name of a struggling writer. She lives in Brooklyn.