A subtle slip into nihilism in between sex: waking up with her still asleep next to you, her cheek bone pressed against the inside of your bicep, cutting off the blood flow to your hand so that it’s gone numb, but you don’t care; that limb is hers now as far as you’re concerned.

Waking up, usually quickly, to put laundry in the wash, start breakfast, and get dressed to go out and start the day; but this morning, just laying there on your back, content to stare at the ceiling and smile. It’s not so much a “nihilism,” you suppose, as it is just an indifferent gratitude.