The thoughts were not calm.
They were the busy, crowded, urgent thoughts of a woman whose body was suddenly very invested in a ranking that had not existed this morning.
'Milking queen,' he'd said.
She pressed her thighs together and the throb answered immediately, hot and specific.
'Good,' she thought, and did not examine why she thought that.
Celia felt it at forty minutes as an absence.
The place where the fullness had been.
She'd been aware of it since he pulled out — the empty, rearranged quality of a body that had been reconfigured and was now running on the new configuration without the thing that had configured it. But at forty minutes the absence developed 'weight.'
Not physical weight. The weight of a thought you can't stop having, except it wasn't a thought — it was a 'place.' A place in her that kept reporting its own emptiness with increasing frequency, like a room that keeps reminding you that a specific piece of furniture has been moved out.
