Free Posey (Low #1.5) by Mary Elizabeth

do.
    Low
     
     
    INMATE,
    I SLEP T on your couch this weekend. The sheets have been washed, and no one sleeps on it but me, but if I close my eyes and stay really, really quiet, and breathe in really, really deeply, I can still smell you.
    You’re there, under the lemony scent of laundry detergent, weaved within the fibers of the couch cover. And when I can smell you, it’s easier to pretend you’re there with me … in the dark, in the quiet.
    I wrapped myself in your blankets and rubbed my face against your pillow, pulling it between my teeth, because fuck, why did you have to go? My legs were bare, smooth against the worn cotton as I rubbed them back and forth, wishing I had my boy between them. I curled my toes and arched my back, keeping my lips sealed as the place only you’ve been inside starts to throb.
    Remember the last time we fucked?
    If we had known then what we know now—that you’d be locked away—I would have loved you harder and longer. I would have made sure it would be great enough to last this long.
    And now all I have are my memories and my hand, criminal.
    The loneliness is punishing, and I’m at an all-time low.
    But, bound in your blankets with the softest part of me aching for you, with your family sound asleep in their bedrooms, I touched myself.
    Writing this, thinking back to the way my fingers slipped between my folds, knowing that you know how impossible it is for me to stay quiet like that … I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help myself.
    Do you, Low? Do you think of me when you’re alone? In the shower, maybe? At night when everyone is asleep, maybe?
    Is it torture for you, too?
    Does it feel really, really good while you’re doing it? Does it feel like bliss when your body explodes and you go numb? Do you lie there, out of breath, and weightless with thoughts of me?
    It only lasts for a few seconds, right?
    Then reality hits like a sledgehammer to the stomach.
    That’s when I remember I’m here and you’re there, and we’re alone.
    Does that happen to you?
    Aloneness is worse, but it doesn’t stop me from doing it again.
    I love you, and I miss you.
    Sincerely,
    Poesy
     
     
    POE,
    I’M COMIN G home.
    Low
     
     
    I HOLD TH E short letter against my chest and close my eyes, truly smiling for the first time in months.
    Our prison sentences are almost over. Lowen will be released from behind bars, and I’ll be free from lonesomeness. Together, we can truly live the rest of our lives.
    Things will be different.
    “Where do you want this, Poe?”
    I fold the letter and slip it into my back pocket before turning toward my dad. He’s sweaty, red-faced, and out of breath from carrying the little bit of furniture I have from the moving truck to inside the apartment. With my TV in his arms, he waits just inside the front door for direction.
    “I guess you can put it against the wall,” I say. “I’ll have to get a table or something to put it on.”
    My mom follows him inside. Her hair is in a messy ponytail, and her skin glows from perspiration. She has a box of mismatched dishes and old pots and pans from her own kitchen in her grasp, complaining about how hot it is outside.
    “We should have started earlier,” she grumbles. “I hate being hot.”
    Rolling my eyes, I head back out for the microwave my parents have given me, untroubled and determined. The apartment I’ve rented is run-down, in a bad neighborhood, and not worth the money I spent to get it, but it’s Lowen’s and mine now. With my signature on the dotted line, it’s six hundred square feet of space that belongs to us. 
    And this is only the beginning.
    “You know, Poesy, I wish you would think about this a little longer,” Mom says, walking around my small kitchen, opening and closing the cupboards. “There has to be something nicer available.”
    “I like it here,” I say, lifting the microwave onto the counter and plugging it in.
    “Why are you in such a rush to move out?” She crosses her