I wrote, some long while ago, a stilted story of a female journalist traveling with a rock band. (And no, I never have seen the Cameron Crowe movie.) These couple of snippets I found lying around were taken from that story.
She rose from the chaise with a laugh and picked up her sandals by swooping them with two fingers from her right hand. They'd had a fun night—another fun night—hanging on the balcony of his suite, but it was later than late now, and they faced an early start tomorrow morning. She was already turned away from him, moving toward the sliders, saying, "I think I'd better . . ."
She stopped at the doors and did turn then, her honest smile falling into something more perplexed and maybe a little uneasy. He was still on his chair, hands still folded on the top of his head in that way he had, and his smile was pasted on perfectly, but his eyes were more wary.
"Don't go back to your room." He unfolded himself and stood.
Her smile was gone, and she shook her head just a little, the way a person might when ridding themselves of an unwanted thought.
"Stay. We'll sleep out here on the chairs—"
"That would be comfortable," she interjected, her spirits lifting because she thought now he must be kidding with her.
"Or we'll go find a ridiculous old movie on the tube and fall asleep watching it," he went on.
"Uh-huh," she said, because now she didn't know what to think and felt like she needed to fill the open air with something, some utterance, any utterance.
They found them in the late morning, asleep and fully clothed on the king-sized bed, holding one another like lost children from a fairy story. His arm was thrown around her waist, his head near her bosom; she had a hand on his arm, and they were folded in towards one another like human Origami.
Whatever late-night movie they had been watching in the hours before they'd dozed had been replaced by a morning news team that had long since abandoned the top stories and moved on to lighter fare, the human-interest and fluff topics designed to make housewives believe that the world was okay after all.
It wasn't of question of whether to wake them; there was a tight schedule involved. It was more who and how and would they be totally pissed off by it?
And, of course it was also, Why the hell are they in here, sleeping like this? Because if they'd been under the sheets, and if they'd had no clothes on, or even if they'd been just as they were but with their backs to one another . . . That might've made sense to the people who knew them. But this formation was bizarre to the witnesses of it.