From Waitressing (Manuscript)

The first morning I woke up beside Alan it wasn’t morning at all. It was afternoon – nearly three, judging from the noise of the San Genero tourists outside my window. I ran my hand over the soft small patch of fur on his breast bone to see if he was a cuddler, and he rolled over and folded me into him. We made a better than decent set of spoons. He was tall to the tops of his feet brushed into the rough calluses on the bottom of my own. “From waitressing,” the explanation rolled off of my dry cat tongue.
He murmered and picked at a particularly dry callus with the nail of his big toe. It was more intimate than anything we’d done the night before.

My feet were smooth when we emerged from my room at dusk.