There was a strange feeling of déjà vu watching her spill
from that crumpled bed, stretch like a young cat, knock strands of long dark
brown hair from her tan shoulder, and smile.
I watched her stand, naked, her back to me - slim,
curvaceous, her mane brushing that indent in her back, kissing her rounded
cheeks. I glanced as she brushed, feeling each brushstroke, transfixed with her
beauty and my luck, understanding that fortune can, and did, smile that Wednesday.
In the mirror I caught her lustrous almond eyes, warmed by after-sex
glow, radiant. The nakedness of her and the nakedness of me were in stark
contrast. She was svelte, hardly a cherry tree in the breeze and I mountainous,
a whole landscape for her to explore. I loved the ease with which we fitted,
the naturalness in the way we fell together - little spiderhunter kisses, then
mouthfuls of hornbill passion flesh, drawing us closer until we were a
rainforest.
My joss was good. She had done that – turned my life around,
gathered me to her with passion and love, pulled me to her slight breasts and
saved me. Over morning beef noodle soup, dark brown coffee in that old tin city
she blew rising steam, her cleavage rising, falling, catching my heart with her
honesty, and holding it in her forever.
It hadn’t been that long. Sparks had flown between us in
that country kitchen, igniting something deep inside, a karmic something bound
up with the yin-yang, ebb-flow of the universe, swept us up together on waves
of passion, bonding our hearts, souls. I knew from the moment I met her that I
would not end my days as a dying dog, front legs paralysed, howling for a
merciful release, hot sun beating on my fur and my misdemeanours video looped
until I passed.
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