“I’m so sorry,” you tell her. “I really didn’t mean to. I just move my arms around a lot in my sleep.” You try to be light about it. “Did you know my dad does the same thing, the sleeping damsel swoon? So weird. I must have—”
“Are you really sorry?” she says. “I don’t think you are.”
“I am,” you say. You want the first impression of the morning to return to you; its freshness, its light. “I really am.”
“Prove it.”
“How?”
“Stop doing it.”
“I told you, I can’t.”
“Fuck you,” she says, and gets out of bed. You follow her all the way to the kitchen.
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