I stood alone by the bed, the bright blue light of an LCD screen softly announcing the curves of the bedsheets, the pillows, the cold hard metal of the bedhead.
The sheets were thrown aside roughly, inviting a couple; for this was a bed made for two, not one. But alas, there is but one of me; and I could think of nothing but what the scene was missing: a woman's form, curves matching the curves of the bedclothes beneath.
My heart ached for what the scene missed; but momentarily; as the LCD light changed, a low pitched vibration echoing through the silent room.
It was her.
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I write some cheesy shit. But, considering the other story was about a suicide bombing I suppose this provides a bit of balance.
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