Saturday in L.A.

Entranced by the innocent act of a woman putting her clothes on…

I’m just about out.

Just at that point between awake and asleep when noting seems real and everything is clear, I’m brought back into focus by the silky smoothness of her voice, “take a shower… I’m not sending you back to your wife smelling like sex.”

Slowly, grudgingly, I sit up and stretch – probably a mistake as I catch my own reflection in the mirrored closet doors. I can’t help noticing that I’m not in nearly the shape I was in my 20’s. Growing up will do that to you.

I wonder who makes those doors.
They’re in every corporate condo in North America.
I’m starting to hate those doors.

My companion seems to be considering me, a lazy half smile on her face, smooth amber skin gleaming in the low light, a mischievous gleam in her dark eyes. Based on my own reflection, I still can’t help but wonder what she sees that is so appealing.

But I won’t complain.
Not ever.

I lean in and kiss her, gently at first, then with more emphasis.

She gives a little appreciative moan and leans into it. After a long, delicious moment, she takes my face in her hand and gazes deep into my eyes, “shower.”

I obey the command.

As the hot water pours over me, filling the room with steam, I have a moment to think. I’ve left the bathroom door open, and through the gap in the shower curtain I see the reflection of my companion getting dressed in those damn doors.

The black silk of her panties slides easily along the curve of her thighs and buttocks, and she deftly adjusts the fit with her index fingers. Even over the cascading water I hear the soft sound of denim and appreciate the small, single hip motion she uses to get her jeans on.

Jeans and a white silk t-shirt, no make up, black hair pulled behind her ears as she looks for – something – my keys maybe, no – cigarettes, of course. A lousy habit to be sure, but she is quite simply the single most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my entire life.