Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down.
Below the flickering light from scented candles, I watched how my elbow which rested on his chest went up and down rhythmically while my fingers cupped his right cheek. He reminded me of an over grown cherub, minus the wings and the halo, with saliva dripping off the edge of his mouth as he fell into a deep slumber. I lay tugging close to him under the floral linen that was strewn loosely around our naked butts. I thought it was mildly romantic.
Did I say mildly?
Now that he’s gone, revisiting this memory that I carefully etched into my mind, I stand corrected. It was one of the most romantic evenings spent in the company of wine, salads, red meat, that landed us at intense conversations that were exchanged between our fingers and skin. We hopped into them at every chance we got, like it was the last meal before an execution.
We had so much to talk!
Thinking back on this one, I think the wine bottle had seen more than my lace had.