I've never seen her before, the chick asleep on my couch.
Shouldn't surprise me - happens all the time - but this one is
incredible. She's six feet if she's an inch and perfect: soft brown
hair, full lips, creamy skin, full breasts with erect nipples, softly
rounded hips, a navel and a pale blue sheet. Her feet are curled,
wrapped in the sheet.
Her eyes open slowly - green, with long, curled lashes - and she
smiles as a stretch ripples down her.
"You're very territorial," she says. "Has anybody ever told you
that?" The backs of my knees soften at the sound of her voice, a
resonant frequency or something. I smile, vacantly.
"I've never done anything like this before," I lie. I feel a
chill, even though the heater's on. I stand there in my boxers, trying
not to stare. She stands and the sheet falls to the couch. She scoops
it up and throws it over her right shoulder, moves close to me.
"Kiss," she says. I obey. "I fix breakfast is how it works, and
we take it from there." She points her chin toward the bedroom and
accompanying bath. "I'll be right out," she says, brushing past me. A
hand lingers on my chest, brushing my hairs. Running water. What do
they do in there?
I try to remember her name, or any detail of the last twenty four
hours. The living room isn't any help - if she had clothes, or a
purse, when she got here, they must be in the bedroom. The couch is
still warm; I imagine heat escaping from the soft indentations she's
left behind. The place is clean, orderly, and, miraculously, doesn't
reek of smoke and beer farts. Almonds, it smells like. A clean ashtray
holds a turquoise book of matches. This isn't my apartment.
She reappears, wearing my favorite shirt and a rubberband in her
hair. Schoolgirlish, sort of. I follow her into a kitchen, modern,
with a breakfast nook. I sit at the table, where a fresh-lit cigarette
- Merit, my brand - is burning in a seashell ashtray. She reaches for
a cannister of coffee and my shirt rides up over her hips, exposing
her bare bottom. She wiggles it playfully. Filter, water and coffee
smells as she extracts pots and pans from under the counter. Bacon.
"Over easy?" I nod, unsure, and she cracks three brown eggs into
a skillet. Whole wheat toast, juice - it all hits the table at the
same time. She places a fork, knife and napkin to the left of my
plate, then sits on my knee, kisses me. My hands rest on her hips,
lightly smoothing the soft fabric over her flesh and she turns closer
to me, hands interwoven behind my neck. Her eyes are huge. With a
sigh, she slips her hands down my shoulders and stands. She opens the
refrigerator door and, blowing me a kiss, climbs inside. The door
clicks closed behind her and I stare for a while, wondering. What do
they do in there?
I eat slowly, helping myself to a second cup of coffee and
rinsing my plate and silverware. Another cigarette appears in the
clean ashtray, already lit. I smoke it, resting my feet against the
fridge. My favorite shirt. I'll probably never see it again.
Copyright (c) 1988 by Burk Murray
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