His Jacket Still Smells Like It

It's almost three. i'm still in the dress, sitting on the kitchen floor because the bed felt like giving up on the night.

We shared the last cab from the wedding. his place first, then mine, except he didn't get out at his. said he'd see me home. the driver didn't ask. i didn't say anything either.

There's a photo on my phone from the dance floor, both of us mid-laugh, his hand flat on my back. i've opened it four times since i got in. the way you look at something when you're deciding whether you're allowed to want it.

At my door he stood there a second too long. i said goodnight first, because if he'd said it i'm not sure i would have. he walked back to the cab. i watched the taillights until they turned.

I have his suit jacket. he put it on my shoulders outside the reception and forgot it. it still smells like the whole night.

I'm wearing it now. i keep telling myself i'll text him about it in the morning. i keep not deleting the draft where i already did.