Breathless Morning

I lay there, alone, running my fingers along the edge of the wrinkled sheet where she had slept. The sheet was cold but I could remember the heat of her body, curled against me, with my arm draped over her, my hand resting lightly on her naked breast. But she had slipped out of my arms. Her morning had to start early and so I was left holding her ghost under the blanket.

The bathroom door creaked and opened letting light cut through the darkness of the bedroom. My eyes, sand-filled and blurry, slit open allowing light to filter through the shadows of my eyelashes. The smell of her perfume drifted in the air and my heart thumped. My lips tightened to a smile, instinctively, as they do every time I breathed in her scent. It was like breathing her essence.

I stared through my eyelashes, adjusting to the light. Her silhouette took form. White-yellow light cut around her curves. Her hair, still curled with wet tangles, draped onto the shoulders of her robe. She looked deep into the mirror as she put makeup on her face, like one of the great Masters paying attention to every detail, every color, attempting to hide flaws that were not there to begin with. The light cascaded over the slope of her breast, peeking out of her open robe, that fit so perfectly in my hand, my mouth, that tasted like a salty-sweet venom that drew me in, poisoned my soul. And the light was darkened by the slant of her bended knee, soft when I touched her, muscular when I squeezed. How incredible her legs felt pressed against my hips, or locked over my back, or squeezed together and hung over my shoulder while I pulled her arms toward me, and lustful words escape her lips.

She doesn’t know I’m watching her, how I do this every morning, how it fills my soul. I watch her as she goes through her dance with her makeup, her hair dryer and curler, and her lotions. She only realizes I’m staring at her, absorbing every detail of her body, when she glances over at me. I can see the smile on her face, the glimmer in her eyes. I think of going into the bathroom and making her sweaty, pushing her against the counter, kissing her neck, her mouth. I could wrap my arms around her waist, under her bathrobe. And when she tells me to take her, I would sit her on the edge of the counter and take her breath from her, after she exhales, and her body shakes. But she has to go to work and I’ve made her late for work too often already. Without words, she knows what I’m thinking, and she shakes her head.  And smiles.

Her hand flicks the light off and my eyes strain in the darkness. I hear her feet on the carpet, moving towards me. The bed bends as she kneels into me, her hand under the covers, resting on my thigh. Her perfume is strong. Her body heat, heavy. I can feel the smile on her face when her lips find mine. This morning, she will not be late for work, but she won’t leave until her hand has finished its job, and I’m left breathless.