It's a tile floor that edges into carpet halfway, since you were picturing it. The sort of tile that's cool beneath your skin, when clothes are yanked off and tossed haphazardly elsewhere, where they don't matter any more than they did on you. The sort of carpet that's not quite cushioned enough when your knees hit it, when my hand feathers through your hair like an old friend and grips your head like no friend at all.

We had talked about something on the way up. International relations? You had said something about realists never growing out of middle school, and I'd laughed, eyes boring through you with an easy smile. We didn't look like we belonged together, walking in, and we still don't belong together.

Maybe that's why this works, with the fumbled haze of sweat and sex that hangs heavy in the room. Maybe it's why the little voice of dignity and sweetness inside you is slapped aside when precum slicks over your tongue and the world is large and cold, and in my gaze you're small and warm and needed.

Maybe why will come to mind later, when calloused hands grip your hips and shove you against the carpet - deep brown, and the kind that would scratch if you had thoughts to spare - and you feel that swollen stretch inside you. There had been a glance around, looking for something to go between, and then that thought, too, had vanished in a kiss to the side of your neck and blissful nothing.

Bare, hot, empty, full, like a rhythm, tangled limbs and grunts that are low above you, and it's not Sunday night after all. The day doesn't matter, like the clothes and the contrast and the irresponsible fucking need of it.

It's not Sunday night, for just a little while.