Swift Scribbles: I Couldn’t Think Of A Title
We’re at home. Her home.
She holds me gently yet firmly, one palm describing lazy circles on my back; the other caressing my ear with one lazy finger. I try not to show exactly what those are doing to me – but I’m lying half on top of her. She can feel it.
She adjusts her lower body and I jerk away – but not fast enough. Some lights…crazy lights go off deep in her eyes. She smiles; that all-knowing smile women have that politely informs you they know what you’re going through, and they are there with you every step of the way.
She kisses the corners of my mouth; one after the other. Her purple lipstick is smeared and smudged after the second time – and I feel my lips stretch in a foolish smile. Thank God there’s no one I’m going home to; I think.
“You were asking something?”
She eases out from underneath me; smiling in my eyes before staining my nose with her lipstick. She walks out of the living room as I turn and lie against the sofa, looking at the wood paneling of the ceiling but not really seeing it.
I’m thinking about my boss and what she would think.
She returns and puts her lips against mine – softly, but she’s mumbling something I do not really get.
Her lips are moving. My hands find their way to her waist and I’m trying to hold her still – but she slips away.
“Read the open pages – the open pages only,” she throws over her shoulder as she glides away. I wonder what she means.
Open pages? Open pages of what?
I look down and there’s a red book in my laps.