Her skin is pale, her rumpled cotton vest and panties whiter than the cream sheets she lies on.

She murmurs something in her sleep and rolls over, an exquisite bare thigh arching on top of the covers.

Her hair is dark black in contrast, a short bob framing her resting face. The cold winter air makes the tiny hairs on her arms stand on end.

Outside the window the world is a white sheet too. The first snowfall of the winter has arrived.

I sit on the end of the bed and stare at her. How lucky I am to have met her. Why did she stay with me? I can’t answer. She deserves better.

But I can’t change who I am. I scoop up the winnings from the bed where we slept on them. Crisp, new dollars fresh from our good run of luck at the Craps table last…