You kick the dog in the hallway, hear it give the tiniest yelp, and avoid any mention of emotion. You have your light hair covering your left eye as you follow her. As you lay down first, you dart your head upwards, stare at that white ceiling and the cobwebs forming in the corners. Still no show of emotion, but it feels like fireworks are being set off in your shoe. There’s the stinging on your fingertips on each patch of her skin, the perpetual ping on your eardrum, and stabs of the numbness crawling up your calf. The way she bites your neck is making your jaw open, left ajar cause you resist making sounds. There are temporary red stains randomly on your neck. You remember her crawling arms, so much like tentacles around your waist and the collar of your button-up shirt, and you remember slipping your reticent arm behind her neck, which is sweaty and warm once you put your palm to it. Her mouth is resting on your neck. Her legs intertwine into your own and the blanket is shoved to the end of the bed.  Both of your legs are suddenly hanging off the side of the bed and dangle off the cliff. You hear her mumble words; you try to focus on anything but this. You try to focus on anything that makes you not feel. You make a joke, she bites your neck again. You squeeze her back and pull her body into yours, but turn your face away. She’s pulling your face in and you keep turning left or right. You’ve remembered that she won’t do this when she’s dry. You sit up. Your back is hunched, you can’t even sit up straight, and she glides her hand up your spine, massaging your bones naturally protruding from your back. She’s trying to feel those insides being held in your chest. You get out of the room. Use the bathroom. Wash your face. And mentally leave the apartment.