Last night, it dawned on me.

Cloudy, dazed, and tired, I heard light music playing in the background. It was too faint to peg the song, but with one open eye, I saw a long, naked leg splayed out to the left. I touched it and instantly felt a sensation tickle my nervous system. Shit, that’s my leg.

Heat does that, you know? Makes one leg hang off the bed, dying for air, needing relief. It screams to the rest of your body, “Get me the hell outta here!” It’s that type of warmth that made me realize another body was next to me. Not a touch. Not a sound. Not a smell. It was that unbearable heat.

With the fuzziness starting to fade, I wondered, Where was this heat an hour ago? I probably wouldn’t be lying here with a strand of cooked spaghetti between my legs. Nevermind a brain that is racing for an escape route. Could it be the whiskey’s doing? Doubtful. She lights a fire, not dwindles one.

I finally heard her voice. “Why didn’t you fuck me last night?”

I turned my head to the right, saw her head on the pillow, and her bare back facing me. She was invisible.

This was the third time I’d found myself in this predicament within the last year. Concerned? Not really. A product of an overstimulated life? Maybe. But two points make a trend, and three tell a story. So I had a moment of clarity, a distinct revelation for a thirty-three-year-old, something that I’ll just have to live with now. A reality for me, wanted or unwanted.

Writing is like sex. No passion, no point.

*This article is part of the ongoing Morning After series: short, reflective pieces on thoughts, feelings, and ideas about life. They’re kind of like well-manicured journal entries, written the morning after a night out.