She waits in the artificial cool of the night, still and stiff under her crisp white blankets, for the fever-dream of her lover's touch along her aching skin. It will come; it always comes, fueled by her longing, her need, her anguish.

She feels it first over her breast, a deceptively gentle hand caressing her, every brush more arousing than the last. The feeling crosses to her left side, evening out the sensation into one continuous tingle of need. She moans in the back of her throat, licks her lips, arches her back into the feeling and lets it grow stronger. Her mouth opens for a deep, passionate kiss. She can taste the salt of her lover's sweat, proof of exertion to be savored after hard work on the court.

Her back presses into the mattress as she feels her lover's weight against her hips, her knees, her calves; as she feels familiar hands run up her legs, touching her exactly as she wants and yearns to be touched, soothing away years of stress and tension. For the first time, she lets herself believe that the nightmare is over, that she has her own Tamika back again and forever, that the last four years can be put behind them.

But when she opens her eyes, her mouth is dry and the only hands on her body are her own.