One of my more elusive lovers liked to have a unique bed in each new place he lived in. He would build a bed to fit his apartment, and then abandon it when he left.

When I knew him, he had just moved to a huge old Victorian apartment, and hadn't found a new bed yet. We slept on the floor on top of a pile of old sleeping bags and comforters. The floor was incredibly hard through those blankets, and I would lie stiffly on my back staring blearily at the ceiling until the sun rose. It didn't seem to bother him a bit.

That bed made my body ache, but I didn't complain – he was considerably older than me, and I didn't want to haul him to my tiny co-op room which I shared with two other women. I didn't want to remind him that I was just a kid.

Instead, I spent the year staring up at the frieze on his ceiling, memorizing every goddamn flower.