You will call him tonight and tell him of idiots, and imagine his skin against your skin, caramel and milk melding into each other like your thighs. He will think of your lips, his hands crawling down his pants, fingers moist, his laugh too guttural to be real.

I will sit on sheets of polka-dotted red, pens grating against my fingers, sweat staining my hair, and in my arms, the smell of cinammon, like in those buns I baked him last Friday. "These are delicious", he said, his crumb-filled lips searching for my cheek.

My name will come up in your conversation - casually, of course. A whispered breath in between two sighs. He will respond casually as well - no mention of the mingling of our thighs. Which words will you use to berate me, to poison him a little against me, just a drop of laudanum to the fever you suspect he bears me inside?

But the penicillin of distance has cured our malady. Why do you rely on his rosy cheeks to infect your own? Don't you know that his love for you, like his love for me, will wind up a dirty tissue on a bathroom floor, white stains peeking out from carpets that are shielded by an ever-shutting door.