Not the First Night, but Maybe in the Morning

I met her at a club: wine dripping, navels itching, and strangers

being loved. She was curious, but not alive. I touched and

walked passed. I did this thrice. The fourth time around she

gripped an arm. “How are you, she asked?” I paused in her eyes.

I’m doing well, I said. We centered a dance floor: energy

pulsating, and chemistry aflame. Our drinks were slow to

come; but we chatted of spirituality vs. religiosity. Her thoughts

we’re profound. She thought the difference was perception, as

opposed to reality; while I spoke of the structure of each

proposition. We drank and lounged, and lounged a drank. I

grew bold and asked her to come to my place. I was fiercely

young; and she was dearly sophisticated; but I wanted nature

inside her. She agreed, and we jumped a freeway to my place.

I felt seductive curves; and kissed voluptuous lips; and

undressed to car breaks. My muse: alert and reserved; keen and

retrospective. We held and fell asleep, to awaken to wantonness.