She wants to talk, but nothing of the sweet kind.
I want to hear her bedsprings squeaking like a tiny mouse caught in a trap — to see her hips move beneath bedsheets, wrapped around my waist.
I heard from an anonymous source, her bedsprings rock like ASMR.
I’m too vain to ask, so I motioned with my eyes.
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, and she bit her bottom lip, lifting her cross necklace, stroking it with her finger.
I realized I ain’t hearin’ her bedsprings.