She’s about to start crying.
This is always the awkward part. I’m never quite sure what to do. She’s sitting at the edge of the bed, still in her nightgown. She’s picking at the cuticles of her nails, but she’s looking dead at me. Tears have brimmed up on the bottom lid of her eyes. They’re a soft brown color, like when autumn has just broken into its full bloom, but long before it starts to die out. Her dark brown hair is disheveled around her shoulders, and she has her toes scrunched up in the rug.
It’s just past one in the morning. She woke up because she heard the door creak.
Her name is Isabella.
She’s just realized that she’s about to become a one night stand.
