I mapped her freckles with my fingertips. They were too numerous to count, so I fathomed them into constellations only I knew the names of.
She slept like a fairy tale princess, all flowing hair and wistful lashes. Her one quirk, her brilliant eccentricity, were her smiles. Discovered by accident one night, I jumped at them like a kitten with a ball of yarn, spent the whole night coaxing them forth. A finger running down her nose, a breath in her ear, just to watch her face curve into a smile she herself would never see - a smile I told myself wasn't mine.
I expected her to wake, to roll over and squint as she asked what the poking and prodding was for. But she slumbered on, Snow White in her glass coffin.
The other unique thing about Ellen was the fact that she slept - she ALWAYS slept. We would fuck, we would cuddle and she would fall asleep, half on top of me and clinging like a barnacle.
It was unnerving at first, but I grew to like it. She would sleep and I could count the ceiling tiles, make to do lists, and categorize her dreams. I never had to endure morning after small talk, the whole 'what are you doing today' and 'when should we do this again'. I could get dressed in the dark, make myself a snack, gie her a kiss goodnight (or good day, if I put it off long enough).
And then I could spend the day convincing myself it didn't mean anything.
