A/N: If you have the time to read it and have an opinion, please give criticism on this. It is a short scene from a long story I'm writing. Thanks, W.

In the morning when I woke up on his narrow and spinally unsupportive dorm bed I had the need, as I often did back then, to see how much of my body I could throw over him without waking him up. He tended to be a light sleeper, so this was hard, but I couldn't help it. I needed to know he was there, that his mass was taking up space next to my mass in person, in the flesh, and I was not just daydreaming all of this during a Chemistry lecture. There was also the possibility that it was a long, drawn-out lunch-time fantasy where I'd pretend to be reading a book in case my roommate walked in but in reality I was in my head and off with him somewhere, lying in his bed at 11 a.m. and wondering how to throw my leg over his hip without waking him up. Michael was so perfect and so mine that it was hard to be sure he was real, so I needed to do this almost daily.

I managed to curl my thigh over his legs, pulling myself up against his side – he slept on his back, my Michael, except for when he was nervous about something when he went to sleep. He did sleep on his side from time to time, but we had been so drunk when we came in the night before that it was no surprise that he was on his back now and still half dressed. When he woke up I'd make love to him – purely as a precaution, you understand, just to make sure he was really there – but in the meantime he was so sweet and alive when he slept, and I have to admit I loved just lying there and indulging myself in the thought of him, of him as real, of him as mine. I'd close my eyes and pretend he didn't exist, and then I'd feel the heat of his chest under my hand (and my thigh) and I would smile.

We'd been doing this pretty much for three months now and I was falling behind in some of my classes, but I didn't really want to be a Chemistry major anyway, didn't want to major in any kind of science, wasn't cut out for the labs. I always screwed up my labs. Labs require paying attention, and I had a serious problem with paying attention. I didn't want to have to pay attention, I wanted to think about Michael. To dream about Michael.

I wanted to watch Michael every moment that I could get away with it, just like I was doing now. There was light coming in around the edges of the cheap plastic shades and I could see the dust motes caught in his eyelashes, the beauty marks on his face, the wideness of his nose and the way it curved down so smoothly into his cheek, his lips. I stared at his chest. It was the kind of chest that looks good without even having to try. I don't know why, but when I was in high school I always was afraid that the first guy I would sleep with would have man-boobs, the idea of which made me so uncomfortable that I refused to go out with anyone until I'd seen him without his shirt, which basically restricted my options to basketball players and joggers, and the sporties were not my type anyway. Suffice to say I'd lost my virginity to Michael around the time we started going out. Only I shouldn't call it 'going out.' With Michael and I together like this it is different. We belonged to each other, I thought. There was no easy term for it. If he'd had man-boobs, I would have suffered them.

I listened to his breathing and noted that he was starting to wake up. I watched his eyes open. I thought for a minute about pretending to be asleep, but instead I put my hand on his chest and kissed the indent on his right shoulder. For a moment he was quiet, we were quiet, not silent but quiet, listening to the traffic outside, minds wandering. I was watching his face, and I thought from the look of it that he was trying to remember the night before, the party, the boobs bouncing (girl-boobs) and the beer spilling, the music, the ball dropping on the TV screen. It had been a huge party. I had never been the party type, never had any fun mock-humping people on the dance floor, too shy, but Michael's friend Lee had put it together, was afraid no one would show up, etc.

I would have much rather watched the news all night. I was almost excited about it. I could tell Michael wasn't afraid of anything, but I kept thinking at midnight an atomic bomb would explode in New York, or the lights would go out, or something. There had to be something. Everyone was saying there would be something. I was positive we'd have a black-out, in fact, and Michael and I would huddle together in his room while the armies of looters crawled through the streets. Street lights would stop working. Cops would quit. News reporters on the radio talking hurriedly in high voices. Chaos. Fear. Gunshots in the distance. Something. Fires. There would certainly be fires. Weren't there always fires when something like this happened?

There had been nothing.

We watched the news for a few minutes around 1:30, just to be sure, but when the clock struck midnight the lights didn't even flicker. By 2:30 people were either gone or too drunk to talk to anyone who wasn't equally drunk. (I'd had a few, Michael too.) We stumbled back to his place together, buzz wearing off but still too drunk and tired for sex. But I do remember some things: the clear sky around the streetlights, the cold air, and Michael saying to me, bemused: "It's a new millennium."

I remember too that for a minute I had to think about that. "This is our time," I said to him. "Everyone has a generation. This is the time for our generation."

I didn't really know what I meant, but I know it had something to do with a dream I'd had for the past few months, a dream about the chaos of New Year's and the generation, my generation, rising and singing together and with our giant (metaphoric) arms of love settling everything back into normalcy, safety. Michael and I side by side saving the country from chaos. With me there was a different dream for every day of the year.

"What does that mean?" he asked me.

"I don't know. But every generation has a thing. This will be our thing."

"It was kind of lame," he said.

"Yeah," I agreed, thinking about whether or not we could still have sex, but like I said we were still a little too drunk and tired.

Now he got up off the bed, rolling away from me (pulling away from my thigh, which was staging a last-ditch attempt to hang on to him), and I rolled into his spot so I could lazily soak up the body heat he so kindly left behind. He walked over to the window and tugged on the shade. You had to tug a couple of times since they really were incredibly cheap shades. When it did slip up the light was blinding and I couldn't see clearly – just the figure of Michael by the window and bright light.

"Anything exploding?" I asked.

"No."

"Fires? Looters?"

"No."

Lame, I thought. "I guess we're okay then," I said out loud.

"Yeah," he agreed, still staring out the window, thinking. I liked to watch him come into focus as my eyes got used to the light. I closed my eyes and pretended he didn't exist. I opened them again. I smiled. I didn't need the world to blow up after all. Michael was a good enough story for me, for now.