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It's the dank emptiness of her sheets that always strikes her, the absence of another's warmth.
The absence of his warmth.
She refuses to admit that she misses him, of course, but her cold bed is happy to remind her of the ecstasy of only a few hours earlier: of his hands, firm and purposeful as they pulled her closer to him; of his lips, hot and practiced against her neck; and of his eyes saying far more than would have ever been said aloud.
And now she finds herself at home, climbing into a bed that is far too big for one person, hugging herself in a meager attempt to replicate the touch of his embrace.
Virginia props herself up against the pillows, arms hugging her knees as she sits by the light of her bedside lamp. Crickets chirp outside her window, but her mind is swirling with too many thoughts to take notice.
Her eyes drag across the room, taking in the space around her.
She is the only person there.
She is the only person desperately craving his touch.
She is eternally hindered by the study.
And suddenly she realizes that night, the night he had shown up on her doorstep and made love to her in her bed, will never become a reality. They will always be married to the study. That will be that, and that will be all.
--
He pours himself a drink, exhausted from the late drive home and still thinking of Virginia.
Their night, their work, their contribution to the study, had been unusually slow and purposeful tonight. It hadn't been calculated positions, recorded mutual pleasure. Instead, they had taken their time.
Bill sips his whiskey, recalling with both surprise and tenderness the way her hands had caressed his skin as if he were the most valuable creature on earth. His physique is nothing to combat the men of her past and yet she touched him, kissed him, looked at him as if he were of immeasurable value. How was that possible, night after night?
And then, when they had finished and were lying in bed, their skin slick with sweat and their hair tousled, she had asked him about his day. Her hand had mindlessly caressed his hair, attempting to comb it back into some semblance of order, while he droned on about patients and frustrations. And that was what was invaluable to him - she had true interest in what was going on inside his head, but she didn't judge or demean him for anything he said. She just listened, commenting or nodding when appropriate.
He takes a quick swig of whiskey, the alcohol burning his throat, and reminds himself of the now hardly-applicable mantra, "It's for the study."
But when had it last been truly about the study?
He takes another sip and closes his eyes.
--
The next day when she shows up to the clinic, Bill is already at his desk, eyes glued to the papers in front of him and brow furrowed in concentration. He appears to be the only one in the office so far, seeing as all the lights, but the ones in his office, are still off. Throwing her belongings on a chair, she makes her way around, turning on lights and getting the clinic ready for another day, picking up discarded memos and tossing them in the trash. She has just grabbed a crumpled-up piece of paper from under a chair to throw away when something in the trashcan catches her eye.
A dozen white roses, a bunch of obviously recently-bought flowers, lie at the bottom of the empty pail. She glances furtively at Bill, who is still buried in his worked and hadn't given so much as a glance to her as she turned on the lights, and reaches into the pail. Grabbing for the stems, she spots a card. Turning it over in her hands, she reads a messy scrawl, "Virginia xx."
Bill's handwriting.