It's funny how a majority of my fantasies aren't even sexual.
~~
I've walked home from the store. We live in a small, old neighborhood, where there are still "mom and pop" shops, where people can still let their cats out. The air is crisp and bright this morning, and I've come home with a bag full of fresh fruit.
I turn the key in the lock. I find you sitting on the floor, cast in a light beam from the window. You sit with your pictures and mementos spread out around you on the floor, the way you always do when you work on your memory books: and you like best to steal small moments of time alone to work on this.
I'd seen you eyeing the box of handmade papers, of appliques, of various treasures earlier, and quietly, I tiptoed out and walked around the block, then went to the store.
You're dressed now, in your casual things: loose-fitting overalls over a violet thermal, the Mephisto walking sandals. It's how you always look on your off days, super-casual, almost like a modern schoolteacher, even if on your work days you wear your hair back in a knot, like a schoolmarm.
You sit with your wavy, dark hair a soft aura about your shoulders. The glasses you've chosen today are the fifties cat's eye glasses, the ones that compliment your heart-shaped face. As you always are when you're working on something, you're deep in concentration, lost among the world of handmade papers and scraps scattered across our floor.
I go into the kitchen and put the groceries away. I come back, kneel, brush your hair to one side: I lean in, and press my lips against the back of your neck. My favorite spot, even after all this time. The scent of your hair and skin surround me in a warm, sweet wave. You lean back into me like a contented cat, distracted at last from your scrapbooking.
"I'll let you get back to that," I say. "Breakfast? What sounds good? I'll cook this time."
"Actually I'd like to go out. I'd like to get out today," you say. "I'm ready to go. Let's just go."
I stand, and hold out my hands, and you grasp them. I pull you to your feet. You brush a stray lock from my face, smiling into my eyes. You fold your hand into mine, and we make for the door.
I turn the key in the lock. I find you sitting on the floor, cast in a light beam from the window. You sit with your pictures and mementos spread out around you on the floor, the way you always do when you work on your memory books: and you like best to steal small moments of time alone to work on this.
I'd seen you eyeing the box of handmade papers, of appliques, of various treasures earlier, and quietly, I tiptoed out and walked around the block, then went to the store.
You're dressed now, in your casual things: loose-fitting overalls over a violet thermal, the Mephisto walking sandals. It's how you always look on your off days, super-casual, almost like a modern schoolteacher, even if on your work days you wear your hair back in a knot, like a schoolmarm.
You sit with your wavy, dark hair a soft aura about your shoulders. The glasses you've chosen today are the fifties cat's eye glasses, the ones that compliment your heart-shaped face. As you always are when you're working on something, you're deep in concentration, lost among the world of handmade papers and scraps scattered across our floor.
I go into the kitchen and put the groceries away. I come back, kneel, brush your hair to one side: I lean in, and press my lips against the back of your neck. My favorite spot, even after all this time. The scent of your hair and skin surround me in a warm, sweet wave. You lean back into me like a contented cat, distracted at last from your scrapbooking.
"I'll let you get back to that," I say. "Breakfast? What sounds good? I'll cook this time."
"Actually I'd like to go out. I'd like to get out today," you say. "I'm ready to go. Let's just go."
I stand, and hold out my hands, and you grasp them. I pull you to your feet. You brush a stray lock from my face, smiling into my eyes. You fold your hand into mine, and we make for the door.
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