Autumn is coming on Friday.

She’s been gone for a year, but when I close my eyes I can still smell her on my fingers.

The glass she always uses still tastes like her wine, and there’s a mark on my windowsill from her brown leather boot.

“I might stay this time,” she said in a text message.  I laughed, but I couldn’t resist the surge of hope in my chest when I contemplated the thought.  I couldn’t resist the desire and want for more than her body. I wanted brunches and walks.  I wanted enough of her time that we had to contemplate what we might do with an afternoon.

She texted me again later that night, “Have we ever fucked on the chair by your window?”

I laughed even louder this time, but I shook my head and brought myself back to the world. We’ve had sex on that chair exactly three times and each one stands out in my memory like a crisp fall morning.  I can taste her hair and remember what she was wearing.  I can see her knees on the armrest as I thrust into her from behind, and I can feel the wood on my back as she hovers above me, teasing me for hours.

“I don’t know,” I finally write back.  “Maybe we should try it.”