He could feel drops of sweat rolling slowly down the small of his back, and he was sure he had lost at least some skin from his knees. The toes on his left foot were cramping, curling up into a claw that he couldn't straighten out no matter how he tried. Later, he would search frantically before finally finding his shirt under the recliner, and already the stain on the couch from the spilled glass of burgundy, and how he would try to remove it tomorrow, was lurking on the edge of his awareness.
But the sight of her long, dark curls spread across the white carpet filled him with joy. The quiet, empty house was all theirs, every room, table, chair, and stretch of floor they wanted to try was fair game. With nearly two hours left before he had to pick up the baby, remembering the glorious abandon of their youth, the simmering intensity of their ardor, was a treasure most precious.
How fucking old am I?
2 days ago