Whenever Lily was at Art’s for the week, Tashi got antsy.

The house was too empty, too quiet, and her mind felt far too busy when she didn’t have dark, silky hair to braid, or smooth, tan cheeks to run an over-expensive sunscreen into.

There was no after dinner treats, or bedtimes, or a demand for pancakes for breakfast, and for once in her life, Tashi found herself with nothing to do.

It felt wrong.

She had nothing to do, her favourite person was away and her hobbies were non-existent, and whenever tennis season was over she just felt useless. She never wanted her only skill to be hitting a ball with a racket.

She’d been busy since she was seven, when she first started playing tennis for a club. And then it was school that occupied her, and then more competitions, then the Junior Open, then college, then Patrick, then the injury.

Nineteen. She was nineteen. And she thought her life was over.

But then came Art and his career, and the push to the Open, and endless physio sessions and couples therapy and then Lily.

Twenty-six. She was twenty-six and her life didn’t seem so over anymore.

The divorce settled quickly, and you were there the whole time, a lingering presence amidst the money split, and the revelations of infidelity, but you didn’t budge. You weren’t there for success, one of Tashi and Art’s little prodigies.No, you were there for Tashi. Your Tashi.

Or were you her’s?

She moved you in over the week that Lily was on vacation with Art, because she wanted it to be a surprise. That little girl loved you.

She demanded to be at every single one of your games, and she demanded to send you a goodnight text from her mom’s phone every evening before her head hit the pillow and she passed out.

Tashi can never keep the grin off of her face when she facetimes you afterwards, both of you snuggled up in separate beds, in different cities, living different lives.

But now, she’s not waking up to a silent house and a dead phone, a cold bed and a closed blind. No little girl shaking her awake to tell her that she’s had a nightmare, and no blaring alarm clock screaming and shrieking and piercing her delicate sleep with its daring noise and invasive light.

No pain. No dread.

Her house is full of boxes and unfamiliar clothes, the usual clean and spotless decor covered in the little trinkets that you've bought and brought from your own apartment, from your own life, and littered around hers.

It's warmer.

And she’s waking up to the sun streaming through the open window, the pillows and sheets beside her still warm and indented by a perfect body. She’s waking up to the sound of your toothbrush buzzing from the bathroom, the one that now has a permanent place in the little marbled holder on her sink.

She’s waking up to the memory of soft hands on her skin from yesterday evening, a gentle warmth that she wishes could stain forever, a feeling she doesn’t ever want to get rid of or wash away by the sunny heat of the pool in the blooming back yard.

She doesn’t make a noise as she slips from the silky sheets and wanders off to find you, her body pulled subconsciously towards the source of the sound in the hazy morning silence. The source of her love.

Your pyjamas are strewn across the bathroom floor, something that she used to yell at Art for but never seems to mind when you do it, because why would she ever yell at you? She’s even gotten softer on her coaching.

“Oh, good morning to you..”

But her arms find the warmth of your damp skin as she slips the charcoal bath towel away from your body, watching as a grin breaks out of your face through the mirror, the feeling contagious as her pearly whites peak through onto her sunny face.

Gentle lips find the nape of a damp neck, and a scarred knee slips between strong thighs.

At last, her love has come along, and her lonely days are over.

“You getting ready for something?... Just getting all beautiful for me?....”