FEED My MIND: Adventure. Learn. Live. Write.
Oh, she’s watched him cook omelets, precise paring of peppers and all. Perching those pointed bones of her bottom on his counter while reading the Times, she lets her leg dangle, toes pointed to the floor, a gentle swing of heel, a rhythmic hit on the low spot of a cabinet door.
This casual line of the shin, knee to ankle to toe, must certainly be orchestrated and rehearsed and called forth from the night before while she reclined in the bath, covered in bubbles, sunk low in the heated water, leg over the edge and dripping on the mat while seeking relief from the night’s breeze coming through the open window.
Her days with him were like this. An ease in the visual and a pause in the shared space and the sensual stroking of every line.