sometimes, out of nowhere, you stumble across really good writing:
We’re up late studying. It’s three a.m. and the only sounds in the room are the fan whirring and his pages turning and my pen scratching ink across the paper. The door opens every so often. It’s always the same: some kid leans his head into the room with a question and sees us on the bed and his face goes uncertain. He thinks David and I are sleeping together. “I’ll come back later,” the kid says, or makes it a short conversation, his eyes sliding back to me as he talks. When it’s a girl at the door I feel a little smug and territorial. This is my space, this half of the bed in the middle of the pile of bedding and books covering it. She can tell.